


One Thousand and One Nights (of Jonsa)

by bubblewrapstargirl



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: (most of the time), Alternate Universe - Born into another House, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, And chooses to find Jon again each time, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anthology, Background Relationships, Badass Sansa, Bisexuality, Canon-Typical Violence, Cousin Incest, Dimension Travel, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Violence, Every chapter is a complete story, F/M, Gen, Half-Sibling Incest, Happy and Confident!Theon Greyjoy, However the Sansa that features is the same every time, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Implied/Referenced Incest, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon Snow is Not Called Aegon, Magical Realism, Minor Character Death, N plus A equals J, Politics, R Plus L Equals J, Robb Stark is a Gift, Romantic Soulmates, Sansa the Puppetmaster, Sansa wakes up in a bunch of different realities, Sansa-centric, Sibling Incest, Time Travel, True Love, Will she succeed?, various relationships - Freeform, we just don't know
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-10
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2019-12-18 08:31:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 31,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18246185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubblewrapstargirl/pseuds/bubblewrapstargirl
Summary: Sansa moves from universe to universe, and unites that version of herself with her soulmate, Jon. Every chapter is a complete mini-story, but they all thread together into one long story.Marvelous wonders don't have to happen all of a sudden, the way they do in the Arabian Nights. They can also take a long time, like crystals growing, or minds changing, or leaves turning. The trick is to keep an eye peeled, so they don't slip by unappreciated.~Ken KeseyI didn't fall in love with you. I walked into love with you, with my eyes wide open, choosing to take every step along the way. I do believe in fate and destiny, but I also believe we are only fated to do the things that we'd choose anyway. And I'd choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you and I'd choose you.~ The Chaos of the Stars, Kiersten WhiteUpdates when real life allows.





	1. Sansa Baratheon & Jon Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ~~1\. Sansa Baratheon (S+L) / Jon Snow (R+L)~~   
>  ~~2\. Sansa Stark (N+C) / Jon Snow (R+L)~~   
>  ~~3\. Sansa Greyjoy (B+A) / Jon Snow (N+A)~~   
>  ~~4\. Sansa Snow (B+C) / Jon Reed (R+L)~~   
>  ~~5\. Sansa Baratheon (J+C) / Jon Sand (N+A)~~   
>  ~~6\. Sansa Bolton (R+B) / Jon Snow~~   
>  ~~7\. Robb Stark/Sansa Karstark/Jon Snow (R+L)~~   
>  ~~8\. Night Sansa/Jon Snow (R+L) Part I~~   
>  ~~9\. Sansa Karstark/Jon Stark (R+L)~~   
>  ~~10\. Sansa Stark (B+J) / Jon Stark (R+L)~~
> 
>  
> 
> 11\. Sansa Arryn (J+C) / Jon Dayne (A+L)  
> 12\. Sansa Baratheon (Rb+L) / Jon Stark (B+C)  
> 13\. Sansa Stark (N+C) / Jon Stark (N+W)  
> 14\. Sansa Stark (N+L) / Jon Baratheon (Rb+L)  
> 15\. Sansa Arryn (J+C) / Jon Snow (R+L)  
> 16\. Sansa Stark (N+C) / Jon Thenn  
> 17\. Sansa Greyjoy (B+A) / Jon Stark (N+A)  
> 18\. Sansa Bolton (R+B) / Jon Karstark  
> 19\. Sansa Stark (N+C) / Jon Baratheon (Rb+C)  
> 20\. Sansa Snow (B+C) / Jon Mormont

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _"When I was alive_  
>  _I was dust which was,_  
>  _But now I am dust in dust_  
>  _I am dust which never was._  
>  _On the black road of life think not to find_  
>  _Either a friend or lover to your mind;_  
>  _If you must love, oh then, love solitude,_  
>  _For solitude alone is true and kind."_  
>  ~ One Thousand and One (Arabian) Nights

Sansa had woken to two warm blue eyes staring with fascination, into her own. She startled back, sitting up sharply to stare in wonderment at a girl child in front of her, perhaps a little older than Rickon would have been, had he lived. Sansa did not know how to react to such a circumstance. She was not unused to servants entering her rooms unbidden. But no servant would stare at her so blatantly. It would be disrespectful, and none at Winterfell would dare to treat her thus. Sansa smoothed down her covers, having clutched them to her chest in automatic defence at being startled awake.

"Forgive me," she said, "You caught me unawares."

There was a note of enquiry in her voice. A lady did not make rude demands, but Sansa would find a way to discover the identity of her intruder, eventually.

"Get up, sister!" said the strange girl with jollity, "We're bound for King's Landing today! Mother will be ever so cross if we're late."

Sansa stared in wonderment as the small girl skipped across the room, which Sansa had not realised was entirely unfamiliar to her, until that very moment. She stared about her in puzzlement, frowning at the strange sights she was confronted with. The walls were not like the solid grey stone of Winterfell, but an ink-dark black, curiously smooth, with no discernible lines denoting where two stones met. Sansa continued to watch in stony silence as the cheerful girl opened a huge maple wardrobe. Though she was too small to take them down, the girl began to root through the many dresses hanging there.

"I can't believe you still have so many dresses left, even after you packed so many to take with us."

Sansa could not continue to sit in silence, so she said softly; "One must always endeavour to look their best."

The younger girl smiled warmly at her and nodded her head, where Arya would have huffed and rolled her eyes.

"You have _three_ travelling dresses," said the little girl, "I like the teal one best."

At last, Sansa rose from her featherbed and crossed the room to see that indeed, there were three woollen dresses hanging together in the wardrobe. She could see that the teal was easily the daintiest, but having no idea how long and arduous the journey she was expected to make was, Sansa instead selected a dark, indigo blue.

She dressed without hurry, allowing her mind to run over the impossibility of her situation. It all felt too solid and real to be a dream, but the view from her window was of an unfamiliar coastline filled with crashing waves. There was no denying she was no longer in the North.

"Sansa!" a shrill voice called from without the room, one which was somehow familiar to her.

"Uh-oh," said the small girl, "I warned you Mother would be displeased!"

Sansa had an inkling the owner of such a voice oft found a reason to be displeased, regardless of circumstance. She straightened her back, and was waiting stoically and uncowed, when to her great surprise Lysa Arryn marched through the door.

"What is the meaning of your tardiness, girl?" raged the spiteful woman Sansa clearly remembered plummeting to her death from the Moon Door.

"I apologise-" Sansa began demurely, but was quickly silenced by her dead aunt's rage.

"There's no time for any of your nonsense. Come along, make haste!"

Sansa quickly belted the sash at her waist, and threw a cloak about her shoulders.

"How long will the journey take, Mother?" asked the nameless girl, as the three ladies made their way through the damp, dingy corridors of whichever keep they were in.

"As if I could guess, Shireen, with waves such as these," snapped Aunt Lysa, "Honestly girl, keep your tongue in your head if you cannot ask sensible questions."

She marched ahead pompously, and Sansa felt the need to offer what comfort she could by squeezing the smaller girl's shoulder.

"Never fear, Shireen," she said, "We can sing and play to pass the time."

The girl immediately brightened. Sansa felt there was no other way but to comply with the obvious plans of the day, having no knowledge of her whereabouts. At least King's Landing she was familiar with. Perhaps she could buy passage on ship bound North, if she could slip away from her party before they reached any particular keep. She could only hope they were not bound for the King's Court. But she reasoned that it was unlikely that luck would be on her side, in this instance. Still, she was brave enough to attempt it. If Arya could slip out of the Red Keep by hidden passages and cavort about the Seven Kingdoms almost getting herself killed a million times over, and still make it home to Winterfell, surely Sansa could manage the same.

It was only when they reached the small row boat on the shore, waiting to take them to the ship anchored off the coast, that Sansa understood where they were. She now had occasion to assess the ferocious keep they had advanced from, and found she understood it to be Dragonstone, despite never having set eyes on the island before. The fearsome keep matched the descriptions Jon had given her, from when he had left her to parley with the vicious Dragon Queen.

Thinking of Jon made her heart give a sudden pang, a wrench of pure misery. Where was he? Could it be possible he was close, perhaps making his way to King's Landing also? For what reason? What reason did she have to make her own way there in the company of Lysa Arryn and Shireen Baratheon, for Sansa had never come across another Shireen, who acted as though Sansa's presence was correct and normal. It felt like madness to Sansa, to be clambering into a tiny boat with her aunt and a strange girl, accompanied by a strange lord in dark armour with a sour expression.

"Do you expect the King will invite us to go, Father?" Shireen piped up, almost making Sansa jump before she caught a hold of herself.

"Naturally, though you're far too young to make such a journey," said the sour lord, "It takes a full month to ride to the North, weather permitting."

"The King is going North?" Sansa said before she could stop herself.

Three pairs of eyes turned to her in astonishment.

"I despair of you, Sansa," said Lysa, with a vigorous shake of her head, "Honestly, girl, what do you fill your empty head with? Why else would we be going back to that wretched castle, but to wave off the court?"

"I apologise," said Sansa, feeling more confused than sorry, "I only meant I was surprised they would set off so soon. I thought perhaps we might have some time at court before they departed."

It was the best Sansa could do to cover her obvious mistake. Shireen continued to stare at her oddly. Lysa, and the man she now took to be Stannis Baratheon, due to his dark hair and blue eyes and relationship to Shireen, both seemed satisfied by her explanation. She resolved to do anything in her power to make sure she was invited on the trip North. Then she would only have to find a way to ingratiate herself with those at Winterfell, so they might allow her to stay.

*

Once they arrived at the Red Keep, Sansa and her supposed family were given even grander apartments than her previous rooms. Being the brother of the king must come with some advancements, she surmised. Sansa said little as they settled in, but narrowly avoided causing a scene when she caught sight of herself in a glass for the first time in waking in her new situation.

Her hair was blackened again, but not a hint of roots shone through. There was some quality about the shine that made the colour seem natural, in a way it had not when she had been dyeing it in the Vale. Sansa tilted her head to see how it was a very dark brown, almost black but more chestnut in some places. But her eyes were still their former cheerful blue. _Baratheon colouring,_ she thought, and understood. As much as it was possible to understand her new situation.

Sansa discovered there was to be a sennight before court departed, but that her household was to remain in the Red Keep. Lord Stannis was to be acting Hand of the King in his brother's absence. Sansa reasoned he must have found it a bitter pill to swallow, not to simply be offered the position outright. Still, if in this instance Ned Stark refused the call, he would most likely be asked to remain. Sansa wondered if it would be possible to convince her true father not to take the position his oldest friend was offering in the Capital. How was she to keep the Starks safe, when they would look at her and see an outsider?

The shock of her altered hair was nothing, compared to rounding a corner in the keep, and almost colliding with her brother.

"Bran!" she almost shrieked, startled beyond belief to see her brother standing, on sound legs, before her.

He blinked at her in confusion, before offering her the wide, kind smile she remembered from before she left Winterfell, so long ago.

"Bryn," he corrected her, and seeing her confusion added, "I'm Brynden Arryn... Lord of the Vale now that father has passed on,"

He lost his smile and became subdued at that.

"Of course you are," said Sansa, "How silly of me. It is only that Bran rolls off the tongue so easily. You must forgive me if I make such a mistake again."

The boy shrugged lightly, seemingly unfussed. Unable to stop herself, Sansa reached forward and gave his shoulder a soft squeeze. He was so young and small, and she wanted to snatch him up and hold him tight, and shelter him from everyone.

"My prayers are for your family, my lord," said Sansa, gathering her wits. "Should you ever have need of me, I am at your service."

“Thank you, Lady Sansa,” Bran – Bryn, she must try to remember, blinked slowly, as though surprised by her offer. He politely returned the courtesy.

With a sudden bolt of inspiration, Sansa smiled, and asked him if he would be so good as to direct her to the grand library. Sansa well knows where it is of course. She spent years living in the Red Keep, and her access was restricted to certain areas. But Bran – Bryn, is only to happy to show her, scrambling about and hopping over obstacles like the brother she remembers from their youth in Winterfell. It is a joy to see Bran as he should have been, energetic and full of life, confident and enthusiastic, taller than she has ever seen him standing, with a small sword strapped to his side. Sansa was most gleeful as she followed him about. She was almost beginning to forget her hatred of this place, when it had unexpectedly brought her such joy.

Together, Sansa and the brother that she can no longer claim as her own, found the section on Houses of the North. The lineage of House Stark was easy to trace. All is the same as Sansa can recall, or near enough that it makes no impact on her true father’s line. Her family tree in this world shared all the branches she knows well, accept until she reached the household of Eddard, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North. Instead of the names she knows and loves so well, there are only two children; Robb and Rickon. Sansa and Bran are now accounted for, but of Arya and Jon there is no note. Until she scoured the footnotes, and found a throwaway mention of Ned Stark’s bastard, born during Robert’s Rebellion. Thrilled, Sansa heaved the heavy tome shut with a wide smile. The path North could not be clearer. And she preened to know she had the skills to achieve it.

*

“I am your heir,” said Sansa, battling valiantly against a strong yawn burning to come out. She had been feeling awfully tired of late. She put it down to the lingering affects of a journey by ship. Or perhaps the longer journey her mind has undertaken.

“Until a son is born to me,” Stannis Baratheon agreed, as matter of fact and irritable as Sansa has come to know him to be.

“I might one day be the Lady of Dragonstone, and rule over the other Houses along Blackwater Bay.”

“Indeed,” said Stannis severely, gritting his teeth. Sansa felt he would have asked her pointedly what she was driving at, if he was a more uncouth man. She chivvied herself, not wanting to lose his interest.

“I will need to marry a responsible, dutiful man of noble birth that those lords can respect, a man who does not expect to inherit a seat of his own.”

Stannis blinked at that, as though surprised by her reasoned assessment. Perhaps he did not believe her intelligent enough to come to such conclusions without guidance. Sansa has gained the impression that her supposed father does not think highly of her intellect. She is not displeased by this. Most people believe so; it has only ever worked to her advantage to have others underestimate her.

“Have you a candidate in mind?” Stannis asked, and Sansa beamed. She knew he would not be slow upon the uptake.

“First, will you allow me to explain my reasoning, lord Father?”

She asked politely, but Stannis remained bemused, blinking as he indicted a seat at the desk in front of him. Sansa demurely gathered her skirts about her, and primly took the offered chair in Stannis Baratheon’s solar, like a fellow lord about to broker a treaty.

“I am very beautiful,” said Sansa shamelessly, in the same plain tone Stannis used. Nothing boastful or arrogant in her demeanour. She was simply stating that she was aware of her strengths. “I am healthy, fertile, of high birth and an honourable reputation. I am the daughter of a Great House, cousin to royalty.”

“An excellent match for any young man, particularly the heir of any noble House,” Stannis replied, “You need not remain on Dragonstone. I know you have no love for the place. I am not an unobservant man. I have seen how you loathe to be away from court. So long as he’s not a fool or cur, or some lowly landed knight, bring him to me and I will make the arrangements.”

Sansa bristled, confused and irritated herself now. She did not want to be the lady of a great House, could he not see? Dragonstone was a strategically wonderful place for her to take control of. She could assist Robb in getting ships into the Blackwater, providing a safe base for him to mount attacks in the coming war. It would be a great advantage for the North to hold Dragonstone in their hands once Stannis died; if she married some lord from Cersei’s court, the Queen would have her for a hostage again soon enough. That, Sansa could never allow. She had devised a wonderful plan, one that would fell two birds with one stone; keeping Dragonstone in Sansa’s hands, and reuniting her with Jon.

“We are close to court, and pulled into all the schemes the Lannisters can muster.” Sansa mused, seemingly off topic, “Yet I have no desire to be dragged into any such dramatics. Nor do I wish to create my own upon Dragonstone, by wedding a lowly lord or third son of some Blackwater Bay House, creating strife with other lords who may resent the favouritism.”

“Hmm,” Stannis eyed her with his cool look, grinding his teeth. “Do you claim a solution or not, girl?”

“I do have an idea,” said Sansa, “One I think you will see the merits of, Father. If I were to wed a son of a Great House, the lords of the Blackwater would be suitably respectful toward their future lord.”

“There’s not many spare sons from Great Houses,” Stannis mused, “Surely you don’t mean to wed your Uncle?”

It takes Sansa a long moment to realise he is referring to Renly Baratheon.

“No!” she chirped, as soon as she gathered his meaning, “Nor any of Mace Tyrell’s sons. I know what they did to you and the Stormlords in the Rebellion. I will never reward their cruelty with my devotion.”

Stannis blinked at that, as though surprised by her sudden fierce show of loyalty. Sansa continued, eager now she had begun naming her few options.

“Hoster Tully only has one son, as does Balon Greyjoy,” she continues, “And the Martells are furious and crazed, like all Dornishmen. Which leaves only Bryn Arryn, already the lord of his seat, and Ned Stark’s sons.”

“Bryn Arryn seems a sound young man,” said Stannis slowly, which seemed like a dangerous musing, “Dutiful, honourable, like his father. You could do far worse than to be the Lady of the Vale. Will you not consider waiting a few years more, for the boy to grow?”

“Decidedly not,” said Sansa, doing her best not to let her disgust at the idea of marrying Bran, show upon her pale face. Little Bran in her marriage bed! It did not bear close thinking.

“So it’s Ned Stark’s boy you are after. The heir is the right age, but the other… a mere boy.” Stannis assessed, “The betrothal would last a fair time. Your mother said you have been enquiring about being fostered in Winterfell- until the boy is of age, I suppose?”

“There is another. Older.” Sansa said softly, careful now she was so close to her goal. Her insides churned, repulsed by the idea Stannis might disregard her idea, and betrothe her to _Rickon_ instead.

Slowly, one of Stannis’ brows raised incredulously.

“I’ve heard rumours Ned Stark fathered a child on the wrong side of his marriage bed,” he said cautiously, “Though I know not if it is true.”  
  
“It is,” Sansa confirmed, “His name is Jon Snow, and he is of an age with his brother Robb Stark, the heir to Winterfell.”

“And he stands to inherit nothing of his own,” Stannis concluded, scraping the stubble upon his cheek with a rough palm. “Sansa, you know nothing of bastards. Most are uneducated brutes. Few, like Robert’s son Edric, are educated in the ways of lordship. You’ll be lucky if this boy can spell his own name adequately.”

“He is the son of Eddard Stark,” Sansa countered frostily, “And man famed for his honour. He took the babe home and raised him beside his trueborn sons. Surely I am right to hope he may not be as extremely unsuitable as you fear?”

It was dangerous ground Sansa trod on, to disagree with a man such as Stannis Baratheon, Sansa could already tell, despite having known him by more than reputation alone for only a scant while. Still, she would gain nothing if she was not bold. Stannis was right to worry Jon might be some uncouth ruffian, but Sansa could not believe that her father would have raised Jon to be so, in any version of their world.

For a long quiet moment, Stannis fixed her with his beedy, Baratheon-blue eyes, uninmpressed by her heavy handed approach. But at length, he deigned to agree with her assessment.

“Robert would legitimise a bastard for a marriage to his beautiful niece. Especially if it means keeping Dragonstone in Baratheon hands. Anything that eases the burden of actually ruling from his shoulders my brother welcomes with open arms.”

Stannis steepled his fingers in front of his face, resting pointed elbows upon his dark, intimidating desk.

“Go North girl,” he said, at long last giving Sansa leave to follow her heart, “Find this boy and see if he is worthy. Your mother and sister will accompany you. Shireen needs the chance to find a man who will take her, and perhaps a visit with her only sister will please your mother.”

Sansa highly doubted anything would improve Aunt Lysa’s sour moods, but she said nothing. Instead she leapt from her seat, and hurried around the desk. In her joy, she felt compelled to embrace Stannis as though he were her father in truth – a hang-over from the girl whose body she was currently borrowing, she supposed. Though baffled, Stannis returned the embrace stiffly, gentle hands patting her back softly, before Sansa skittered away to celebrate her victory with lemoncakes she had squirreled away to share with Bran.


	2. Sansa Stark & Jon Snow

Sansa woke to the gentle sound of falling rain outside her window. She snuffled and burrowed further into her covers, like a dormouse seeking warmth in its nest. When her mind acknowledged the familiarity of the sensations; her girlhood bed and the ordinary sound of rain falling on Winterfell’s ancient, weather-beaten stone, she sat up, alarmed and overcome with hope, all at once. Sansa let out a cry of joy when her eyes confirmed what her heart already knew. She was home, where she ought to be, in Winterfell, just as she remembers it.

Petyr told her when she arrived to wed Ramsay, it had been burned and damaged and was in a terrible state of disrepair because of the Ironmen’s attack. She had seem evidence of that herself, but none remains now, in the view from the window. If Sansa had not been lately transferred to another life and version of the world, she might have assumed time had rewound. But she knows better than to assume she is Sansa Stark of Winterfell anymore. She rushed to her looking glass, and was pleased to confirm the redness of her locks. Tully bright, with blue eyes to match.

Without much care, Sansa quickly threw on the easiest dress she could clothe herself in alone, and rushed from her room hastily, clad in blue wool. She almost careened into Arya, who was skittering along the passage with equal enthusiasm. Arya was small, in a blue dress herself, with long hair tamed by a crown of braids. Sansa started, to see her sister dressed in the manner their lady mother had enforced. In her world, Arya kept her hair no longer than shoulder-length, and rarely wore dresses.

“What are you doing?” Arya demanded, scowling up at Sansa, “I thought _ladies don’t run_.”

She affected a mocking impersonation of Sansa’s own voice, but Sansa was altogether too delighted to see her sister, alive and well, to much care.

“Arya!” she cried, not with horror or annoyance, like so many times in the past; but with delight, bright and burning and expanding in her chest.

The sensation filled Sansa’s arms and stomach with warmth, made her throat clench and fingers tingle with excitement. She gathered her squirming sister into an embrace before she could overthink the action. Arya stiffened, confused, and then irritated by her confusion.

“Mother!” she squawked, “Sansa’s being weird.”

“Oh hush,” Sansa admonished without heat, trying to ignore the giddy leap of her heart at the idea she might soon see their mother too, “Cannot a sister show affection to her younger siblings?”

She stepped back and allowed Arya her freedom, then watched her sister huff and grumble.

“When have you ever?” Arya demanded, under her breath.

Sansa tried valiantly to ignore the stab of guilt and hurt. She had been self-absorbed as a child, she knows it. There is nothing she can do to undo the past. She can only move forward. That is what Jon taught her, and she believes it all the more in her current situation.

When their mother joins them, the two Stark girls buzzing with alternate bemusement and elation, Catelyn Stark is treated to an exceedingly long and loving embrace from the eldest. Then Sansa scurries away, eager to see Jon. She did not see her mission of wedding Baratheon to Snow through to the very end. She can only hope the girl whose body she borrowed, was content to go through with the match. But since it had all been arranged, with that other Sansa safe on the road with forceful Lysa, she cannot fathom that it will not go through. She cannot dwell on it any longer. Her happiness at being returned to Winterfell, where Arya and Mother still live, is too strong. She will seek out her father and brothers presently, but first her feet fly to Jon’s rooms. The door lay open and she poked her head in for only a moment, to see that the room was empty. Sansa did not linger, but rushed outside immediately, knowing he will would be in the yard. But only Theon is there, knocking arrows and letting them fly, nonchalant and arrogant as he hits his every target. Disappointed but not deterred, Sansa soldiered on, heading toward the Godswood.

Before she could reach the gate, she caught the welcome sight of Robb deviating from his course to meet her determined walk.

“Good morrow, sister,” he said politely, and was swiftly startled by her response; another warm hug as Sansa threw her arms about his neck.

Rocked back on the heels of his feet to absorb the blow, Robb chuckled, and patted her back.

“Are you not cold, sweet sister?” he asked, “There’s a bitter chill on the wind today. Where are you going in such a hurry, with no cloak?”

Sansa did not feel the great chill Robb spoke of. Her inner fire of exuberance was keeping her warm. And, she suspected, having come from the frigid depths of winter in her true world, it would be difficult to recognise any brisk summer breeze as cold.

She merely shrugged off the question, unable to provide an adequate explanation, and gave her brother a half-truth; “I’m going to the Godwood. I wanted to speak with Jon.”

Robb’s smile was swiftly swept from his face.

“Oh,” he said, altogether too solemn for Sansa’s liking.

“Father says the gods speak through the heart trees, sometimes bringing the words of our ancestors. But I rather think it is not the place to speak to Jon.” Robb continued, overly subdued.

Sansa frowned. Whatever could Robb mean? Jon was oft in the Godswood, but if he were somewhere else at this moment, why did her brother simply not say so?

“Come, we shall go together,” said Robb, gallantly holding out his arm. With her best genteel, lady-like smile, Sansa took the elbow she had been offered.

She allowed Robb to lead them away from the merrily rustling trees of the Godswood, toward the overcast shadows of the castle keep. Down towards the First Keep, the more ancient and unloved parts of Winterfell, passages which still lead to the more inhabited areas of the fortress, but by more roundabout pathways. Sansa did not question why Robb chose this route. She assumes Robb knows where Jon is at the present moment, and she only frowns a little, when he leads her down into the depths of the crypts. They seem quiet and empty. No sound of breathing or swish of a cloak in the darkness to reveal another mourner paying their respects. Sansa squinted in an attempt to force her eyes to adjust to the darkness, hoping for a glimpse of a well-beloved, much-missed face. Robb gave her an odd look, leading her further into the crypt with the soft press of his hand. Presently they came to the only female statue in the crypt. Their Aunt Lyanna’s haunting dedication, a young woman’s icy face rendered sorrowful in pale stone.

In Sansa’s world, there were two newer statues; Father and Robb himself. A rendering of Ice was carved in Father’s hands, where as Robb was crowned, resting one hand on the head of his loyal direwolf, a huge carving of Grey Wind beside him. Rickon’s likeness had been commissioned, but was not yet complete before she had awoken on Dragonstone. Sansa made as though to step closer to her Aunt’s statue, and was surprised when she found herself stepping alone. Robb had paused a ways from it, beside the next empty plinth. The place where Father’s bones were encased and lay resting, in her time.

Robb was looking at the tomb, which should have been empty, awaiting the next Lord Stark. He caught Sansa’s eye when he noticed her hovering uncertainly, giving her a perplexed look.

“Sansa?” he said, as though asking as if she were well.

Sansa did not meet his eyes. She was too engaged looking at the carved rock which bore Jon’s supposed name, declaring for all the world that she had come upon his final resting place.

“Oh no,” breathed Sansa, her words quieter than a whisper, “No, no, _no._ ”

Robb did not seem to notice her extreme reaction. Not until she fell into a crouch beside the base of the tomb, her hands in the dust as her knees gave way. Hot tears began to stream down her face, scalding her face, though she did not feel it through her shock.

“Sansa!” Robb started, reaching for her in alarm, but Sansa threw back her head to look her older brother in the eye, throwing up one arm, bent at the elbow, to stymie his attempt to raise her to her feet.

“What is this?” she hissed, betrayed and horrified, “How could this have happened?”

They were too young, all too young for any such misery to have befallen them yet. It wasn’t fair. Sansa had arrived early, so early in their lives... but she was already too late.

“A fever took him, when we were boys,” said Robb slowly, unmindful of the true nature of her questions, “You know this, Sansa.”

Sansa gathered her hands into her lap, trembling with horror and confusion. Slowly, as though through a fog, clarity came to her. Her Jon had survived a fever when they were very small children, she recalled somewhat dimly. Father had stayed up beside him for many nights while he struggled to breathe. Was it before or after Arya was born? She could not recall. It was so long ago. But this Jon had been gone for all that time. Sansa shivered in sadness. It did not bear thinking about.

“There’s no statue.” She registered suddenly.

Robb shifted uneasily, at her sudden inquiring gaze.

“Why-” she began, but was quickly cut off;

“He wasn’t a lord of Winterfell.” Robb said quietly, “It wouldn’t be proper.”

“Neither was Aunt Lyanna,” Sansa retorted angrily. “And yet her likeness is rendered, so her face will be remembered by those who loved her; known by the Starks who follow on from us.”

“Sansa-”

“This was Mother’s doing, wasn’t it?” Sansa demanded, suddenly sure of it.

“I know not-”

“It’s _not right!_ ” Sansa exploded, her face red and fists clenched, crouching, trembling with rage. “It’s not right Robb! It’s not proper _not_ to have one! Jon was our brother. Our brother and he loved us.”

“You barely _knew_ him, Sansa,” Robb spat out suddenly, “You were an infant when he died. _I_ was the one who played with him, slept beside him, attended lessons with him. _I_ loved him- I loved him best out of everyone and then he _died_ and I was alone-”

Robb choked on a sob, and turned away from her swiftly, as though ashamed of his grief. He was not quick enough to stop Sansa catching sight of him scrubbing furiously at hot tears. There was a long silence that followed. Robb remained turned away from Sansa, unable or unwilling to share his vulnerability. Sansa waited patiently, as her swift anger was quickly banked, knowing that deep down, Robb agreed with her.

“Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can still picture his face, the sound of laughter.  But the image grows hazier by the day,” said Robb, subdued and quietly ashamed. “You’re right, Sansa. Soon the image will be gone completely, and there will be no way to call it back.”

“Jon’s face is as clear to me as your own,” Sansa declared. “And this-” she waved an arm to encompass the appallingly bare plinth, where Jon’s statue should be, “-cannot be allowed to continue.”

Robb graced her with another heavy frown.

“How do you intend to alter it?”

Sansa knelt and straightened her spine.

 “A lady always finds a way, Robb Stark,” she said imperiously.

She took hold of his arm, and allowed him to help her to back her feet. Together, they stood in solemn silence over their brother’s final cold and lonely resting place, united by their quiet grief.

*

Sansa’s first step was to render Jon’s boyhood face in charcoal. It takes many false starts to ignore the beard she knows should be there. Sansa was not a particularly skilled artist, and so the endeavour took time and considerable effort. Still, she wrangled Robb and Arya into sitting for her, so she could accurately copy down the features she knew they shared with Jon. The shape of Robb’s mouth. The area around Arya’s eyes, coupled with Father’s nose and long face. She added baby-fat cheeks for added youth, and marvels at the well-loved image that forms.

Soon, her sketches were numerous, and the roughest drafts littered the floor of Sansa's room, before tutting servants swept them away. Sansa was not deterred by her deficiency in skill. Instead, she dedicated more time sketching during other lessons, neglecting her needlecraft and dressmaking studies in particular (of which she needed little assistance in regardless, as Sansa had indeed travelled to an earlier time, and was therefore well in advance of her Septa’s current teachings). Her parents seem mildly concerned about her preoccupation, which is bordering on obsession. But Sansa brushes off their enquiries airily. She allows none of her mother’s gentle suggestions for other activities to distract her from her purpose. For some reason, Mother seemed to think Sansa was drawing the face of her future husband. It is true of course, only not the way that Mother means- not some fantasy knight from a song. Sansa knows in her bones, she will met her Jon again.

It takes sennights, which turn into moons, before her task is complete. Sansa is not entirely pleased with the outcome, but she knows she could make endless adjustments until the Wall falls, and still never be quite satisfied. She does not have that kind of time left in this world. Already, she can feel the pull to sleep deeply once more, and alight somewhere else.

She presents her final sketches; Jon’s face in profile and straight on, plus a body sketch of his stance, to Robb and the stonemason her brother has commissioned.

“I’m the heir to Winterfell,” Robb said imperiously, when he revealed his intentions to seek out a mason himself. “I shouldn’t have to ask permission to make reasonable adjustments to the keep.”

Sansa grinned broadly at Robb’s definition of ‘reasonable’ including an entire, expensive statue.

“If Father has questions, I will answer them,” her brother reasoned, “but I’d rather not submit a request for the work to be done, only to have it rebuffed. I can apologise later.”

Sansa had thrown her arms about Robb’s neck then, overcome by her emotions. It has been hard to stomach this world, where all is so familiar, and yet not. Slightly skewed, but only Sansa seems to notice that all is tilted from its axis. Even Arya is less boisterous without Jon's loving indulgence. Here she has no one to be in cahoots with, save for their younger brothers, who cannot look out for her in the same way. But as long as Robb cares for them all so deeply, Sansa has hopes that the Starks which remain in this world, can rally together and survive it. Even without her darling Jon.

"I'm sorry you had to die never knowing a love like ours," she whispers to the partly-complete statue, when its face is finally finished. "But I take comfort knowing you were surrounded by a family that loved you well. Sleep in peace, Jon. Watch over us, if you can."

She offers his cool stone face a single cherishing caress, then turns and walks into the light, feeling the call of sweet sleep deep into her bones.


	3. Sansa Greyjoy & Jon Snow

Sansa woke slowly, lulled by the gentle lap of waves washing slowly over the pebbled shore outside. She stretched and yawned massively, pushing out her arms until her elbow joints popped satisfyingly. She peered through the gloom of her room, blearily taking in the new features. It was certainly not Winterfell she had awoken in, nor did the décor match what she now knew of Dragonstone, or the Red Keep. There were sparse furnishings; the only thing of interest was her huge fireplace, embers still glowing ruby red from the night’s fire. Sansa pushed aside her thick bed blankets to take a better look at the carved mantlepiece above. Carved from a single piece of stone, it held a fascinating depiction of a kraken locked into battle with a leviathan. Sansa had only seen such creatures in the painted pictures in Maester Luwin’s books. They were not popular creatures to render on the loom or embroider on nobles’ clothing, at least not in the North or King’s Landing. But the Seven Kingdoms had very diverse regions, and Sansa had not explored them all.

Beginning to suspect she knew what this clue meant for her new life, Sansa was not surprised to look outside, and see an unbroken view of the sea. It was lapping hungrily against the huge stone buttresses of the keep, miles down from her window. She could catch only the barest glimpse of a pebbled shore peeking round the rocks when she swivelled her head to the left and right.

“Oh!” cried a woman’s voice behind her, “Sansa, Sansa, you must dress quickly!”

Sansa returned to the soles of her feet, having raised to tip toes to afford her neck a better stretch.

“Is there a great hurry?” Sansa now asked of the older woman, who had entered her room.

The lady had black, frazzled hair in need of a good brush, and a dark green dress that had seen better days. She wrung her hands together agitatedly, tugging on a strand of her slightly matted hair.

“Your brother has returned to us,” the woman whispered, with a wild sort of fervour that immediately had Sansa on edge, via some instinct she could not name.

“He has?” she prodded carefully, wondering if this was a longed for, or dreaded, occasion.

“After all these years,” whispered the stranger, “I never thought to see him again. Your father said he was as good as dead when the Greenlanders took him, but he lives, he lives, and the savage wolves have finally released him. Oh, my baby, he was just a baby-”

Sansa quickly regretted her question, hurrying to the increasingly agitated lady’s side. Sansa stopped the frantic twitching of her hands by gently grasping them in her own. She had the assumption that this woman was her mother in this world, and even if her guess was erroneous, she did not like to see others in pain. She was more humane than to ignore suffering if there was ought she could to do to ease it. Simple kindness went a long way to comfort others, she had learnt after being denied that basic right in King’s Landing. She was also now sure she knew exactly what her new name would be, and who her new brother was; a man who had long been her brother, in truth.

But it did not bring her peace of mind, when after she had dressed and joined her supposed mother in a grand, if damp, hall. She knew not how to ensure Theon did not betray her brother, and wondered if it was possible to alter his course at all, of it was already set. Still, when he smiled hopefully at her, nervous as though he barely recognised her, Sansa threw herself into his arms. He was not her Theon, not the man who had helped her escape from Ramsay’s clutches and therefore saved her life. But he still conjured an endlessly grateful feeling of hope and warmth in her chest. He still a familiar face in a sea of new and intimidating Ironborn ones, and in his warm arms she felt safe.

*

“I still can’t believe how big you’ve grown,” Theon said for the umpteenth time.

He seemed utterly charmed by the mere sight of him. Sansa was equally impressed with his conduct here. He had borne Alannys Greyjoy's tearful declarations of devotion with grace, embracing his mother lovingly, despite being embarrassed by her excessive outpourings of love. Sansa could see Theon was mollified by the love of his mother also. She could not fault him for remaining close to the harried lady, holding her hand softly as they supped and spoke. The mature woman was clearly overjoyed at his presence. And no doubt Theon had missed her greatly. For the first time, Sansa appreciated how difficult it must have been for Theon to relocate to the North, having been forcefully taken from his parents as a boy. He was younger than she had been when she willingly went South, and he had been aware he was taken by his father's enemies. A hostage of a war just completed, instead of one in its infancy, as Sansa had unknowingly been.

“You were this high-” said Theon as he used his palm to indicate a place somewhere about knees, “-when I left. Little more than a babe. I thought you would have forgotten me.”

“Never,” Sansa vowed, solemn and honest. She could never forget what Theon had done for her, breaking through his trauma to save her. There would always be a special place for him in her heart.

"You did receive my letters?" she asked.

Sansa assumed her other self would have written to him, if she was half the lady in this life, as she was in her own world. Sansa was dutiful about writing to her loved ones, when she was allowed to be. Cersei hadn't allowed her to write to her siblings once the war began.

Theon grinned and nodded his head. "I kept them all, even the ones from when you were very young, and you included terrible drawings of clams and crabs."

Sansa laughed, delighted to hear it.

They were seated in her solar; her chambers, which she had discovered where on the island of Harlaw, contained three distinct rooms. She had found a jug of ale set out there when she dressed for dinner, and asked him to join her after the welcoming feast was done. Theon had readily agreed, seemingly thrilled and surprised by the warm reception he had received. Sansa wondered what the reactions on Pyke had been, from their supposed shared father and elder sister, whom he mentioned visiting first. She wondered if he had already betrayed Robb, and agreed to set out and take Winterfell for his father.

When she asked about the Starks, Theon was evasive. But he spoke of Jon as though he were beside Robb in battle, which gave her equal amounts of hope and worry. If Jon was not a black brother, she would be free to wed him. And if Theon was still considered Robb’s ally, he would be the perfect man to broker such an unusual alliance between the North and the Iron Islands. But if Jon was already engaging in battles beside Robb, he could be fatally wounded in any skirmish, or wiped out by the devilish Frey and Bolton plot. Or Robb might already have used Jon’s unwed status to secure a marriage alliance with some other House. She was sure Walder Frey had enough daughters he would not sniff at relinquishing one to a bastard. Still, so long as Sansa joined the Northern retinue travelling South to rescue Arya (who had been betrothed to Joffrey in her place), she knew she could win Jon over.

Robb had tossed aside a betrothal and it led to his death. It could be that in this life, Jon was destined to die beside him. Though Sansa would try to steer them away from attending any weddings hosted at The Twins, at least if Jon was slain for breaking a betrothal to wed her instead, they would die together. She would prefer that end, rather than the knowledge she now had, that there was a world where Sansa had lived on when Jon died as a babe, and so she would never have her true love.

*

Theon spent two days charming her and frustrating her in equal measure, being so attentive to his loving blood sister, but irritatingly tight lipped when she pressed him on his plans. Barging her way into his borrowed rooms the night before he was to return to Pyke, Sansa slipped into his room, clad in an anonymous black cloak. Theon was burning a letter in the grate of the fireplace, and Sansa’s heart began to sink. She wondered if it was a missive from Robb, or a letter of apology to him, Theon had thought better of. Then she shook her musings aside. It did not matter. She threw the plain guard’s cloak she had pinched, earlier that day, to Theon. He caught it with a look of confusion.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“What does it look like?” she countered, “Dress yourself, quick sharp. We do not have long before the guards change, and that is when we must move. Else we will be stuck here for another two hours, and every moment we tarry, dawn grows closer.”

Sansa had stayed up all night on the day of Theon’s arrival, to make a note of such a thing. She had learnt the schedules of the guard rotations at Winterfell in a similar way, so she knew when she could sneak along the passage to Jon’s rooms.

“Sansa, I like this not,” Theon hissed, despite obediently fastening the cloak about his neck. “What is afoot?”

“Why, we’re escaping of course,” Sansa whispered with a mischievous grin. “You must return to the Starks, and I’m of a mind to come with you.”

“Sansa-!” said Theon, leaping to his feet in disbelief.

“Don’t forget your bow!” She demanded, ignoring his surprise.

She whirled around again, and poked her head back through the door. As she suspected, the guards had begun to trudge away from the family apartments, rolling out the kinks in their necks and shoulders from standing still. Their replacements would take their places in minutes.

Sansa motioned behind her back with one hand, opening and closing her fingers, until Theon consented to place his hand in hers. As soon as their skin touched, they were off. Sansa dragged him from the chilly, ugly room, into her own equally chilly, ugly chambers. It was her newly acquired knowledge that Arya was sequestered in the Red Keep, which had inspired Sansa to look for hidden passages. She had spoken with her sister at length, when she had returned to the North to find Sansa the Lady of Winterfell. She had learnt how Arya’s secret sword training had led her to discover hidden passages out of the Red Keep. Sansa figured that it must be a feature of all coastal castles, as it only made sense for such Houses to provide themselves an easy escape, if they ever came under siege, or a way to smuggle food in. Davos Seaworth had famously smuggled onions into Storm’s End. She had no doubt Dragonstone also contained such hidden passages.

On the early morning of Theon’s second day, Sansa had spent the earliest hours of the day looking for a way to freedom. It was far easier than she expected. Sansa had feared should would have to venture down to the dungeons, or some dusty, unused storeroom. But the route to freedom was in her very own rooms! Sansa had been delighted to find it in the third room of her chambers, a room her Ironborn self had evidently used as a private library. The room was filled with texts on the ancient songs and tales from every corner in the Seven Kingdoms. Sansa had pushed padded chairs draped in delicate throws aside, feeling along the floorboards and stonework, tugging on carvings fruitlessly. Until at last she pressed her fingers to an artfully chiselled fish with bulging eyes and whiskers round its mouth, and the gargoyle moved with the grinding sound of stone working over stone. To her surprise, a section of the less ostentatious fireplace in this room swung back, revealing a black, cold hole.

Sansa had tugged off her dress, aware she could not cover it in incriminating soot from the fireplace. Then she clambered in, and pushed the stone door further inward, to peer into the gloom. She began to formulate her plan, even as she retreated from the fireplace, to remove a sconce from the wall. Using the torch ahead of her, Sansa saw a low-ceilinged but wide passage, below four dingy steps. Cobwebs lined the bare walls, reassuring her that it was not an oft used path. She spent the afternoon brushing away the dirt, and following the small passage to its conclusion. It ended in a small cave that led to bare rock outside, easily concealed from passing ships, by the outcrop of rocks immediately in front of its entrance. She was shocked to find a small row boat tethered perhaps half a mile away, that they could easily scramble down the rocks to. Though the path would be treacherous in the dark, Sansa was certain they could make it.

The boat’s presence gave her pause, because it meant the passage was known of, but she valiantly attempted to cross the rocks toward it. It was slow going, as Sansa had not had the foresight to seek out riding boots or other sturdy footwear, before she began her quest. Eventually, she had reached the little blue boat, and noted its paint wasn’t too peeled, and it seemed in generally good shape. It had been dragged onto the rocks to sit patiently, as if waiting just for her. To give the assistance she so surely needed, to escape these desolate islands. Sansa highly doubted the Greyjoys would ever have given her permission to seek out the Starks. Or that Balon would have allowed his daughter to wed into their House. Sansa had begun to understand why she was being transported to the particular moments she awoke in. Each day she woke, was a pivotal moment for the Sansas she had been, and their families.

Sansa Baratheon had almost been trapped at the King’s Court, and was now on her way North, due to her intervention. The less fortunate Sansa Stark had ensured Robb and the other children would remember Jon. And Sansa Greyjoy was determined to reunite Theon with Robb, before he made a terrible mistake. She would ensure the safety of Bran and Rickon in Winterfell, and secure her path to Jon again. Sansa had no doubt that this girl whose body she had borrowed, had never attempted to leave alone. Because she felt she had nowhere to go. The other Ironborn would have returned Sansa Greyjoy home again, if they came across her bobbing out in the sea, in a little row boat on her own. Without Theon’s assistance, there would have no question the mainlanders would not have welcomed her kindly.

But Robb knew, and still trusted, Theon. And a highborn woman in hand, who could be used as a hostage, could be nothing but a boon during wartime. The Starks would take her with open arms and wide smiles, thinking her a beautiful fool, who did not know what she was sacrificing. Mayhaps Robb would even suggest a betrothal with Jon himself, without her prompting, to persuade Balon to fight beside him. But Sansa would never find out, if she did not escape immediately with Theon. He was the only one who could secure her a position within the Stark encampment.

Her new brother inhaled sharply through his teeth, when she twisted the whiskered fish, and the hidden door revealed itself. Sansa handed him a torch, and offered him a bright smile.

“There is nothing here for us, Theon,” she whispered firmly, “and if we don’t flee now, we will be trapped here, to waste away in salt-encrusted misery.”

“Father will-”

“Father cares only for himself,” Sansa snarled, sure it was true from all she had ever learnt of Balon Greyjoy.

“I am his heir-” Theon started, pitifully hopeful still.

“Yara has stolen your position,” Sansa said, regretfully but honestly. Theon was too much like she had once been – dwelling on dreams, and learning nothing about how to navigate life until she was forced by brutality to wake up to her situation.

“She’s a woman,” Theon protested, “Men won’t follow her. Not Ironborn men.”

“Enough already do,” said Sansa, clambering into the deceptive fireplace. “And though she will probably fail to convince a Kingsmoot, our people will not follow a man raised by Greenlanders either. There have been whispers Euron is coming back to challenge our father for his Crown.”

Sansa watched as Theon reeled at the new information, but she did not give him overlong to process it or begin to question it. They did not have the luxury of time. She wanted them safe in the boat as quickly as was safely feasible. Theon did not offer her anymore protest when she took a hold of his empty hand once more. She tugged him into the close-fitting space, which was almost too tight for two people to stand side by side. Sansa pushed Theon to descend the steps behind her, as she began to stuff the fireplace with the materials she had placed on the ledge just inside the hidden door.

Theon only consented to lower himself into the passage by one stone step, crowding close to Sansa’s back so he could peer around her and see what she was doing.

“Sansa,” he said softly, “If we are discovered...”

“Hush,” she said, but not ungently, “If we are quiet and quick, we won’t be. None have cause to worry we are not in our beds. With luck we will not be discovered until late morn.”

“This is madness,” Theon shook his head as Sansa sparked a fire in the grate she had just swiftly stepped out of.

She had stuffed the formerly empty grate with wood and coal. Sansa added a drop of highly flammable perfume, the only treasure in found in her rooms worth keeping, beside the silver jewellery she had already loaded herself down with. With that accelerant in place, the fire caught immediately once Sansa pressed her torch to it. She and Theon quickly skittered back, almost stumbling down the steps in their haste to avoid the immediately scorching, roaring flames. Sansa reached up to push the heavy stone door back into place, sealing the hidden chamber once more. Theon’s pale spidery fingers quickly appeared above her own, and together, grunting with effort, they blocked out the home that belonged to neither of them.

Sansa turned to look up at Theon with bright fervour in her eyes, suddenly excited to be undertaking this adventurous task with him. She was not sleepy yet. She wondered how many more days this world would last for her, and how much of the road to Jon she would get to enjoy with a new big brother by her side. Theon took hold of her hand

“Lead on then, sister,” he said, “I’ve no idea what Robb’s going to say to all this. But Lady Catelyn's going to adore you.”

“All the Starks will love me,” Sansa sniffed authoritatively, as she began to lead Theon down the small passageway. “I am exceedingly charming.”

“Aye,” snorted Theon, “And modest with it. You’ll fit right in.”

Sansa grinned broadly, though he could not see it from his position at the rear. Theon had no idea how true his words would prove to be, she was quite sure of it.


	4. Sansa Snow & Jon Reed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _each day's a gift and not a given right_  
>  _leave no stone unturned, leave your fears behind_  
>  _and try to take the path less travelled by_  
>  _that first step you take is the longest stride_  
>  ~If Today Was Your Last Day

Sansa was thrilled to wake up in Winterfell again, though it took her a moment to realise it, since the room was not her own. After a careful consideration of the walls behind her girlish furnishings, she concluded that her first inkling was correct. For some reason, in this world she had been given Jon’s room. The realisation of that caused a sinking stone to form in her stomach.

If Sansa was housed in Jon’s room, then where was Jon himself? Sansa was not sure how many more of these worlds she could stand riding roughshod through, without looking upon his fair face again. Sansa was beginning to worry it is not her fate to meet any Jon, but her own man. Sansa wondered if that was to be her reward, when she had completed this mission from the gods, to set the other Sansas on their path to colliding with the Jon in their own world. She was righting wrongs they were not even aware existed, she was sure. Because she too had not known that Jon housed her own soul’s companion, until she was old enough and hardened enough from suffering abuse, to look into him and see the truth of who he was. An honourable, gentle knight, kind and true.

In her wardrobe, Sansa was surprised to find plainer dresses than any she had ever worn before, save for the ones the Boltons clothed her in. Frowning in confusion, she resolved to add some pretty embroidery to the dowdy dresses, to make them more appealing. She had no time to linger just then however. Sansa had decided to be firm, in her belief that the old gods would not be so cruel as to send her to yet another life where Jon had died as a boy. He must have rooms in Winterfell somewhere, and she planned to find him. Her head held high, Sansa marched from her rooms to the great hall, determined to clap eyes on her brother and lover, whoever he might be in this world.

Sansa only realised she was receiving odd reactions from others when she sat herself beside Arya, and her younger sister did not look up at her in mild irritation as usual. She did not look at Sansa at all in fact.

“Sansa,” said a voice to her left, and she was surprised to see her father looking at her in mild trepidation, as though he were cautious of her, which would of course be ridiculous.

“Did you forget the Glovers would be arriving today?” said Ned Stark.

Sansa blinked, utterly perplexed as to why her conduct had indicated she might need to be reminded of this.

“Yes,” she said cautiously, “I forgot. Did I not dress correctly?”

She looked down at her black in confusion. She had only black, grey, dark green and dark blue to choose from. This black one was by far the prettiest, including a nice lacing about the throat.

“You look lovely, Sansa,” said her mother, with a subdued smile.

Catelyn Stark was glancing at Ned imploringly, as though she wished to catch his eye, but Sansa noted her father remained stoically looking at her. Something in his expression seemed apologetic and mildly embarrassed. Sansa sat in silent confusion, perplexed and mortified that it should be in her own home, with her true family, that she should have been noted as acting like an intruder. In the end, it was Robb that came to her rescue.

“Come on, Sansa,” he said brightly, “I’ll sit with you.”

He leapt up from his seat, full of boundless enthusiasm as he always had been, and offered her his arm. Sansa was glad to see her beloved brother remained gallant, no matter which life she encountered him in. Robb lead her to one of the lower tables, chattering all the time about mindless things, as though to distract Sansa from his task. He was escorting her away from the top table, she realised with another sinking feeling in her stomach. She noted with some surprise that Robb was shorter than her.

Though this body felt natural to Sansa, tall and sleek, slim as she was, she had never before been taller than either of her eldest brothers. Though Theon was seated somewhere amongst the rabble, she judged that he at least would still tower over her. But Robb, who had always been magnanimously large in Sansa's eyes and indeed her memories of him, was instead sweet and young and small. He was perhaps ten and two, and it ached her heart to see him so young. She also realised that his hair was a darker brown than she remembered it, from her distant childhood memories or the version of him she had met only recently. Her Robb’s hair had been distinctly auburn, whereas this boy had very little red in his curls.

To test out her theory as to why her height was so advanced, versus Robb's age, Sansa spoke to him sweetly when they arrived at a spare place along the benches, wide enough for two.

"Thank you, little brother," she said, "That was most gracious,"

Robb preened, and did not seem confused or teased by her words. She was the eldest. And banished from sight, for some unknown reason. Coupled with how she had awoken in Jon’s less grand room, and was wearing rather less than wonderful dresses, Sansa reasoned she must have awoken a Snow.

“Where’s Jon?” she asked as they settled down together.

Perhaps in this life they had been born as twins? It would explain why she was also a bastard, although not why Lady Stark had been warm to her, if she was not Sansa’s mother.

Robb fixed her with a perplexed look.

“Jon?” he repeated, as though he had never heard the name. “Cousin Jon?”

“Yes!” Sansa seized upon the lifeline, hoping it would be the correct one. Bran had been distant from her in her life as a Baratheon, and yet they had been friends nonetheless. Perhaps it was the same here.

“I didn’t know he was expected,” Robb said with a frown, “Did you receive a raven?”

Unsure how to respond, Sansa shrugged.

“He did not say anything definite.”

“Well, there you are,” reasoned Robb sensibly, “Crannogmen are mysterious creatures, even when in the best of moods. No doubt he’ll emerge from the mist at the most unexpected moment, as usual.”

“Ye-es,” agreed Sansa doubtfully, and wondered with a frown how she had managed to exchange letters with Jon, if he was living in the Neck. Everyone knew there were no ravens there.

Puzzled, and dizzy with the casual disregard she encountered from all about her, Sansa later found herself treading the familiar route to the Godswood, in the hope of gaining some clarification from the gods. On her way she brushed passed Theon, who called out to her.

“Watch it, Snow,” he said, but with more cheek than disdain, affording Sansa a flirtatious wink.

Sansa felt her cheeks heat up with a flush of surprise. She had been a bastard before of course, in the Vale. Well she knew how baseborns were expected to have grown faster, exposed to more at an earlier age. The less chivalrous men in the Vale had made crude gestures and suggestions to her when she was pretending to be Alayne Stone.

“Watch yourself,” she retorted, deciding to affect the confidence and swagger of Alayne, who had no reason to be demure.

Theon laughed, and did not seem surprised by her attitude.

“Ah, give us a kiss, Sansa!” he begged, stepping closer and reaching out as if to take hold of her hand.

“Not a chance!” said Sansa, scandalised, snatching her hand away before their skin could touch.

Theon barked out another laugh, clearly delighted by the interplay between them. Sansa gathered that they held a playful friendship. She was surprised that it should be so, well knowing there had been little love between Theon and Jon when they were boys. But oh, what a difference a pretty girl’s face could make. Jon was a rival, one that Theon could bully because of his base status, whereas Sansa Snow was a pretty girl he could take more liberties with for that same reason.

“Away with you,” she chided him, “I’ve no time for your nonsense today, Theon.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve a mind to commune with the gods,” said Sansa, “I plan to beg favours from them.”

Theon raised an eyebrow, as though aware of her reference to the wedding vows of those who kept the old ways. Sansa only granted him an enigmatic smile as she turned and continued on her way. At the heart tree, she knelt and began to pray for Jon; that he was alive and well, and somewhere in the North, that he might already on the road to her. She begged the gods to allow her to look on his sweet face again, before sending her further on her journey. Then she prayed that her mission might be close to its conclusion, that she could return home to her own Jon soon.

She knelt in the dirt until she was eventually interrupted by her lady mother. Catelyn Stark afforded her an apologetic look.

“It is a travesty that I must hide you away, as though your birth is something shameful,” she lamented, after helping Sansa to her feet with a gentle hand. They sat together on the bench before the heart tree, where Lord Stark came to clean his greatsword Ice.

Sansa gave her mother a gentle smile. She was pleased, if confused, to learn that Catelyn was indeed her mother here.

“Your father and I were betrothed. Had he not been treacherously murdered by the Mad King, you would have been the eldest daughter of House Stark, and granted all the respect you deserve.”

“I do not blame you, mother,” said Sansa, well knowing that Catelyn Tully had once been betrothed to Brandon Stark. It was easy enough to understand what had taken place in this world.

Catching sight of her brothers – and cousins also, in this world, Sansa noted again Robb’s darker hair. She turned with wide eyes to her mother, whose Tully blue eyes were locked on the past. Sansa swallowed her horror, wondering if there was a single honest person of noble birth across the Seven Kingdoms.

She had replaced Robb as the eldest child…. Did that mean she had replaced Robb as Brandon’s child? Was it possible that both her elder brothers were ‘bastards’? And if Robb was Brandon’s son, had her father known, and accepted it? It was well-known that Ned Stark had been a reluctant lord at first, feeling he did not deserve to take all the majesty Brandon had lost with his premature death. Mayhaps her lord father had decided it was only right that Brandon’s son inherited Winterfell, as he always should have.

Sansa had learnt that many second- and third-born men were not comfortable, stepping into their elder brother’s shoes after their deaths. That the guilt of ‘stealing’ their birth right clung to many of them. And her father was known to be foolish in his honour. Unsettled, Sansa gently slipped her hand free from her mother’s grasp.

Her throat burned with bile. Sansa was disgusted to think on Catelyn Stark’s treatment of Jon in her own world, if her Robb had been baseborn also. What right did Catelyn have to treat Jon so badly, if she had birthed a child ‘from sin’ herself? Yet, Sansa had learnt both of her parent’s follies with the benefit of hindsight. Hadn’t she already realised that Catelyn Stark had started the war, when she stupidly took Tyrion Lannister hostage with no proof of his guilt? Madness; madness that had gotten Jory and her father’s other guards killed, and sent Jaime Lannister to the Rock, a strategic movement that left him lead the fight in the Riverlands when the armies came to blows. Sansa shook her head, desiring to be free of her musings of the past. It would do her no good to dwell on events she could not change. She had to look forward. She had to locate Jon.

*

It seemed for the first time since her adventure began, that Sansa’s prayers were granted. For when the imminent arrival of the Glovers was announced, and Sansa hurried up to the battlements to watch, Bran scrambled up the castle walls to join her up high. Breathless, he smiled at her with rosy cheeks, skittering over the crenellations to join her on the parapet.

“The scout said there’s a crannogman with them!” he crowed gleefully.

Sansa’s heart began to pound rapidly in her chest.

“Do you think it’s Jon?” she demanded.

Bran shrugged. “Who else would it be? Lord Reed never leaves the Neck, they say, and we don’t know any other crannogmen.”

“That does not mean there are no other lords who might wish to talk with F- Lord Stark,” said Sansa, correcting herself just in time.

“I do hope it’s cousin Jon,” said Bran earnestly, “He always brings sweets.”

Sansa nodded in agreement of this serious benefit. Her heart refused to cease fluttering, and she barely contained a squeal of joy when a she witnessed a familiar dark head of hair riding into Winterfell, amongst the Glover banners.

*

Sansa had to stop herself before she automatically threw herself into Jon’s arms. He had found her at the feast, joining her at her seat among the lower tables. He had been gone by the time Sansa had rushed down to the courtyard, no doubt gone to wash the dirt from his skin after the long travel from the Neck. Sansa knew it would be incautious to seek him out among the guest chambers. She did not yet know if he knew her well, if he loved her, or was not yet close to her counterpart in this world. It seemed they exchanged letters, but perhaps that was simply Sansa Snow fulfilling her duty to a man who was purported to be her cousin in this world. She had not yet had time to determine why that might be. Since she was Brandon’ daughter in this life, it was possible Jon was Benjen’s son, if their Uncle had married into a small House in the Neck, instead of taking the Black.

But her theory was proven incorrect, when Jon joined her in the curiously reptilian scaled leathers of a crannogman, his jerkin proudly bearing the black lizard-lion of House Reed. His well-loved face was pale-skinned, and open with naked hope and affection. His dark eyes twinkled in the dim candlelight, his smile slightly obscured by stubble. Sansa wanted to kiss his sweet lips and run her hands through his dark curls, which were shorn short, as they had been in their youth together.

“I looked for you in the glass gardens, as we agreed,” Jon said to her quietly, after the occupants of the other table had ogled him, and gone back to their food and conversations.

“Forgive me,” whispered Sansa, “I could not get away,”

She had not known of any plans, and cursed herself for not thinking to hunt about her rooms for Jon’s letters. To know how he felt about her would have been an advantage. But Sansa had not had the time to look for them; she had been busy embroidering small shining black beads to a moss-green dress. She knew the crannogmen favoured brown and green sigils and colours, as these blended well with the boggy Neck. Sansa had an inking she would not clash with Jon’s new House colours, whatever they proved to be, if she dressed thus. She was pleased to find herself gratified. Her dress looked far prettier in with the additions she had made; a bright swamp-lily and a scattering of beads across the bodice.

“When can we?” Jon said, in reply to her words of regret.

“Get away?” she clarified, before she looked about the hall, to assess how deep into their cups the men wore. Pretty deep, she soon surmised.

“Presently,” Sansa decided softly, “When desert is served.”

“Ah,” said Jon knowingly, “There’s the Sansa I love – I knew you would not leave this hall until you had a lemoncake in your hands.”

“Oh hush,” Sansa giggled, because she was glad he knew her so well, and already professed to love her!

She wondered why she had been sent to this world, as they slipped out together, Sansa’s lemoncake carefully wrapped in her handkerchief and tucked into a hidden pocket in her skirts. Jon clearly loved her- he clasped her cold hand into his warm one, tucking her cloak closer about her to keep out the icy chill. They slipped out of the crowded hall and scurried to the glass gardens like two secretive mice, thrilled with their escape, though none were interested in a bastard and a crannogman- crannogmen being the bastards of the North, in comparison to their noble cousins.

“Do you think your mother will finally agree to look for another match for you?” Jon asked her, after they had secluded themselves away in the deserted but warm glass gardens.

He had delighted her with a sweet kiss once they were sure they were alone, and Sansa could barely focus on his words because of it. She wanted to demand another.

“I think so,” said Sansa, though she in truth she had no idea 

“It’s been half a year.” Jon said, “You weren’t even betrothed to Domeric for as long as that.”

Sansa blinked in surprise, unsure how to process this information. The future Lady of the Dreadfort was a very prestigious title indeed for a bastard girl from the North. Yet she was not truly surprised Catelyn Stark had been able to secure such a match for her. Sansa was beautiful, well mannered and ladylike in all ways. She had been raised at Winterfell, and clearly afforded a great education, as Jon had been. Stark blood was not to be sniffed at, even though vows had not been said. Being a child of two great Houses, it was no wonder Sansa Snow had been offered excellent matches.

In an effort to ignore the tangle of thoughts tumbling in her mind, and because she was so desperate to receive his lips again, Sansa pressed her hands to Jon’s shoulders and drew him into a hungry kiss.

“Oh, Jon, Jon,” she murmured, “I missed you so,”

“I missed you also,” he said with a kind smile, his dark eyes glittering through the gloom. He looked exactly as she knew him to. She wondered why Jon’s hair had not changed to reflect his new heritage as a Reed.

“Don’t leave me again,” she implored him, “Take me back to the Neck with you.”

 “If your mother will allow it, I shall,” he promised, “I will be the Lord of Greywater soon enough. Father is not like to live out too many more winters, Mother says.”

Sansa squeezed his shoulders, pleased at this confirmation that Jon was the heir to Greywater Watch. She understood at once what obstacle this Sansa was struggling to overcome was; the low reputation crannogmen had with Northmen. Catelyn Stark had always been a snobbish woman, looking down her nose upon cripples, bastards and dwarves. Sansa well understood how it would be an uphill struggle to show how Jon shined like a diamond amongst the boggy dirt of the Neck. 

“I will not give her chance to deny me,” Sansa declared, “Robb and Uncle Ned will support the match, I know it. You are kin to the Starks and his friendship with your father is well known; that will make it easier.” 

“If anyone could persuade them, it would be you, Sansa,” said Jon, flattering her with his sweet words. 

She shook her head, her loose red waves bouncing gently. 

“Nay,” she denied, “It’s your good nature that will win them over. The Starks respect and love you, Jon Reed. But none more than I.”

“I’m glad to know it,” said Jon, and kissed her again, so gently and achingly soft, as though she were a thing to be cherished.

Sansa pulled him even closer into her embrace, clinging to Jon as though if she held on tight enough she could keep him, and pull him through to the next world that waited for her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarification:  
> -Jon's appearance didn't change because he's still the son of Rhaegar and Lyanna. In this world, Ned didn't want to offend Catelyn by bringing home a bastard when he already believed she was in deep mourning for Brandon, whom she had just had a child with. He figured they didn't have a foundation yet - because Robb didn't exist yet. So Howland raised Jon instead, with an agreement to pretend some distant shared ancestor with the Starks, in order for the two men to be 'cousins'. In this world, Ned regularly checked on Jon in the Neck, bringing the household (including Sansa) along, and that's how Sansa and Jon fell in love.  
> (Chapter One contains a summary list of each chapter, which states who Sansa and Jon's parents are, if there's ever any confusion.)
> 
> -Personally, I don't subscribe to the fan theory that Robb is Brandon's son. ASOIAF experts have debunked it, saying the timeline doesn't fit. However, GRRM himself said that people move across Westeros at 'the speed of plot' which means its possible in some other world Cat snuck away from Riverrun to meet Brandon on the road South to conceive Robb/Sansa/an OC, and it's a fun AU to play with.


	5. Sansa "Baratheon" & Jon Sand

Sansa rolled over in a featherbed softer than any that had touched her skin before. She was disappointed to wake in another unfamiliar room, though the decadence and furnishings allowed her to quickly recognise the style of the Red Keep. She sighed heavily, and resigned herself to being a hostage once more.

It seemed her thoughts were immediately confirmed when Cersei Lannister swept imperiously into her room, followed by a stoic member of the Kingsguard. Sansa stopped herself from wincing at the sight of the knightly order who had once beaten her bloody. The man, whoever stood behind that golden helm, remained by the door and Sansa was thankful for it.

“Up, up, my sweet girl,” said Cersei, “My little brother’s foolish scheme is being set into motion today.”

Tumbling from the covers in a combination of curiosity and confusion at being termed Cersei’s girl, and not ‘little dove’ by the cruel Queen, Sansa tugged on a thin gauzy robe to cover her immodest nightdress. Sweet birdsong sang through Sansa’s open widow, with a balcony that overlooked the famous rose gardens. She frowned to see it; certain only royal apartments were afforded such a magnificent view.

In her distraction, Cersei Lannister had selected a grandiose Lannister-red dress for her, heavily embroidered with golden lions. A train of handmaidens streamed into the bedchamber then. Cersei ordered them about, demanding a certain scent and hair style and jewels for Sansa to wear that day.

“We all must look our best in the presence of our enemies,” said Cersei, surprisingly gentle toward Sansa, like a mother imparting life lessons.

“Yes, my queen,” said Sansa respectfully, unsure what relationship Cersei had towards her in this life. Had she married Joffrey? Is that why her rooms and dresses were fit for a Queen?

Cersei frowned.

“Why do you not call me mother, sweet girl?” Cersei questioned, “Are you very angry with me, child?”

It was said in a genuinely probing way, as though Cersei and Sansa were locked in some ongoing argument. Sansa saw this through a haze of detached horror, as she realised she was showered with riches here, because she was a Princess. With the airy, lazy glide she had see Cersei walk with, Sansa moved away, toward an ornate looking-glass in a gilded gold frame.

Her hair had a distantly reddish tinge to it; some thin streaks that could generously be termed strawberry. But the overall colour was golden blonde, more curled than the usual waves she was used to, like a stream of runny honey. Sansa valiantly fought back the urge to vomit up her empty stomach. She was Cersei and Jaime’s bastard child. Raised a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms. Everyone that was an enemy to the Lannisters – the Starks, her real family, most of all – wanted to see her dead, with all her new kin.

How ever would she make Jon love her now?

*

After Cersei and the Kingsguard knight left Sansa’s chambers, to allow her to dress in privacy, Sansa was prodded and poked and stuck with hairpins. She was pimped into a suitable display of wealth from the crown of elaborate braids and curls tumbling about her face, to the tips of her expensive slippers-from-Lys-clad feet. Then the twittering girls lead her into the throne room she had once been tormented daily in, where she found to her horror the familiar and hated sight of Joffrey Baratheon on the Iron Throne.

The bastard King did not appear to notice her entrance, but as Sansa attempted to mingle unseen amongst the courtiers, she unwillingly caught Cersei’s attention. The frosty Queen smiled at her in that smirking fashion. Then frowned at Sansa’s non-reaction. With a jerk of her beautiful golden head, the Queen indicated that Sansa was to join her.

With a reluctant swallow, Sansa gathered her elaborate skirts and slowly made her way close to the throne, dragging her feet. When Sansa began to scale the dias to stand beside Cersei, Joffrey caught her eye, and offered a faint sneer. But nothing close to the distain he had shown her, when she was his to torment.

With another jolt of mortification, Sansa realised she was the petulant coward’s sister. No wonder he had little interest in her. He had been similarly dismissive with Tommen and Mrycella, from what she could remember of his interactions with them from her world. Both his younger siblings had been afraid of the young king. Probably because Joffrey bullied them savagely as a child, she guessed.

Sansa stood stoic and quiet beside Cersei Lannister, her skin crawling to be so close to her enemies, and probably considered as black-hearted as them, by all her loved ones. She wanted to throw herself into the Blackwater to be free of this world already. She did not know if she could stand another moment in this Sansa Baratheron’s skin. That she had days more to endure, soured her stomach.

Sansa distracted herself from her bleak thoughts by wondering how she could help the Starks and their cause from her new position of trust. Was Arya Joffrey’s betrothed? Could she free her true sister, by helping her to the passages her Arya had found in Sansa’s home world? If this Arya had been betrothed to the future king, Sansa had no doubt her father would not have dared to have her trained in sword fighting. The opportunity to find the secret ways out of the Red Keep would not have been afforded to her.

Or mayhaps her father was alive. Could she bribe someone with Lannister gold to free him from the black cells?

Sansa was so distracted by her musings, she barely noticed when the doors to the throne room were opened, and the Martells were announced, with pomp and ceremony. But Cersei pinched the inside of her wrist mealy, causing Sansa to let out a whimper at the unexpected pain. She offered her hated ‘mother’ a betrayed look, and received one of censure in return. Aware she had been caught daydreaming, Sansa returned her attention to the room, and dragged in an audible inhale.

Nestled beside the Martell contingent were Dornish bannermen, clad in their house colours. In the uniform of a Dayne soldier, Jon stood beside a hauntingly beautiful woman who could rival Cersei in sheer stunning looks was a lady with raven-black hair and dreamy purple eyes. Jon’s looks seemed to echo her’s, right down to shocking purple eyes of his own, Sansa noticed. Through her shock at seeing him here in the Capital, a place her Jon had only visited long after she had fled, Sansa recognised the colour change must be akin to her hair- an indication of his altered heritage.

She did not have time to wonder why he had remained unchanged as a Northman. From the corner of her eye Sansa noted Cersei had heard her surprised drawing of breath. Sansa knew Cersei would want to know what had shocked her and why. She cursed herself for being so out of practice guarding herself around Lannisters.

*

Sansa did not allow her new kin chance to monopolise or question her. At her earliest opportunity, Sansa escaped out into the rose garden, and almost immediately stumbled across Margaery Tyrell.

“Sister, are you well?” asked the sweet woman with a concerned look, standing up to guide Sansa to a seat beside her in the shade.

Olenna Tyrell was there also, and ladies-in-waiting Sansa vaguely remembered the names of. For several moments, Sansa sipped on water sweetened with sugar and the juice of lemons, and contemplated all the new information. Margaery had a small crown of roses and antlers nestled in her chestnut-brown curls. She was Joffrey’s Queen then, and yet the horrid boy lived. Mayhaps Arya had never been considered a viable match, and Sansa hoped fervently it had been so. So Robert Baratheon had looked elsewhere, and Margaery had never had to wait for Sansa to be swept aside. So Margaery’s wish that they become sisters had come to pass- but not in a manner Sansa approved of in any way.

“I have had a shock,” Sansa revealed to the other girl, aware of the Tyrell’s status as chief schemers.

She wondered if they were friends in this life, then concluded just as quickly as the thought came that they must be. Margaery would not have let the opportunity of befriending a Princess pass her by.

“Tell us everything, sweet Princess,” said Lady Olenna, “Unburden yourself. We are all friends here, and friends keep secrets.”

“Yes, Sansei,” Margaery urged.

Sansa pressed her sharp nails into her own palms until they began to sting, at the Lannister bastardisation of her name.

“I saw someone I did not expect to, in court.” Sansa revealed.

“Who was it?” asked Margaery in the familiar playful and mischievous tone Sansa remembered from so long ago.

Sansa had been saddened, but unsurprised to learn of Margaery’s fiery death at Cersei’s hands. Margaery was not so great a player of the great game as she thought she was. Still, she Margaery had been a warmth to her in King’s Landing. She did not deserve to suffer, but at least wildfire was quick.

“Did you see a former lover?” the young queen teased her, plucking a grape from a vine sitting on a silver platter, to pop it into her plush pink mouth.

Her eyes widened when Sansa did not deny her playful jape. Sansa could feel her cheeks had gone pink, and now she played the part of a bashful, less than virtuous lady, somewhat ashamed of herself, but glad to have secrets at all.

“Now you simply must tell us,” Olenna said with her own smile of mischief. “Has he grown terribly fat and ugly since you loved him?”

“Or thin of hair?” suggested Margaery.

“No!” squealed Sansa with a laugh.

“That’s better,” said Margaery, “For a moment there I believed we had lost our laughing Princess.”

Sansa sighed wistfully. She did not feel much jollity in this world. Jon’s appearance as a Dayne soldier did not ease her unsettled stomach. He might still be an ally to the Starks, and hate her.

“I love him still,” Sansa whispered, “But it wouldn’t be a suitable match.”

Sansa doubted any but another King would by considered suitable match by Cersei Lannister for one of her daughters. Mrycella had been betrothed to a Prince, after all.

“Who is he? A tradesman? Or no- not the famed Red Viper?”

“Worse,” lamented Sansa, “An ordinary Dornishman. A soldier.”

“How scandalous,” whispered Margaery with a note of envy, “It is said they are all marvellous and attentive lovers. Very thorough.”

Sansa ducked her head but did not deny it. She had tried not to dwell on her nights of passion with Jon. It would only make her all the hungrier for him, and she had barely seen him on her frequent hops between worlds.

“Is there no hope at all?” asked Margaery gently. “I could try and find him a position at court?”

“That’s very kind, your grace,” said Sansa, “But I fear he no longer retains the love he once had for me. Lannisters are very hard creatures to love.”

Margaery frowned. “But you are only partly a Lannister. You are a Baratheon, Sansei.”

Sansa offered her a grim smile in return, knowing that if she was born from Cersei’s loins, her blood was all red-and-gold.

“As you say, your grace,” she murmured bleakly.

*

“I’ve heard a rumour,” said Cersei quietly, as they supped together.

Sansa refused to look up from carving her beef stake, Mrycella by her side. Tommen was a small squirming shape across from her. Cersei, of course, sat the head of the table.

“A rumour of something untoward between you, and a lowly Dornish soldier, Sansei,” Cersei hissed, her long elegant fingers clenching around her glass of dark red wine.

Sansa valiantly chewed her mouthful of steak, attempting an entirely blank and disaffected countenance. The dowager Queen evidently had her spies among Margaery’s ladies. Sansa was not in the least surprised.

“A ridiculous, idle speculation, I thought,” Cersei continued dangerously low and quiet. Like a snake crawling on its belly, getting into prime position before rearing up to strike at the throat.

Sansa said nothing, not willing to indulge Cersei’s venom.

“Until I remembered your reaction in the throne room this morn,” said the poisonous woman.

Sansa finally met her eyes.

“Who is he, Sansei?”

“There is no man, mother,” Sansa lied.

Cersei’s jaw twitched, a snarl on her lips for a mere breath before her grim look returned, flat and unapproachable.

“You’ve always been a terrible liar,” said Cersei, before abruptly standing and sweeping her plate to the floor, shattering the ceramics with a crash.

Mrycella flinched, but Sansa did not move.

“Do you think I have wasted my time and energy on you girls, my daughters, _the Princesses of the Seven Kingdoms_ ,” Cersei hissed, “So you could throw yourselves away on peasants and serfs?”

“No, mother,” said Sansa boldly, “I think we shall be sold like cattle, just like you were.”

She was expecting the slap, but the blow to her cheek still stung madly. Sansa felt the familiar trickle of blood welling on her cheek. Cersei’s thick gold ring must have broken the skin.

“Look what you made me do,” Cersei snarled, her eyes glinting pale like acid. Or wildfire.

In complete silence, Sansa rose from her chair with dignity and stalked from the room, ignoring the vile woman’s cries to return immediately.

Sansa had the great misfortune to cross paths with Joffrey on her way back to her new chambers. He stared at the blood on her face in abject shock. Sandor Clegane stood at his back, his eyes fixed to her cheek also.

“Who dared to strike you?” Joffrey snapped, “The sister of _the King?_ ”

“Mother, of course,” said Sansa airily, “Behead her if it please you, your grace. The gods know she wouldn’t be missed.”

Joffrey gaped at her for a long moment, before spluttering something nonsensical. Sansa shrugged, supremely unconcerned. Joffrey did not seem so frightening, not after she had faced down Ramsay Bolton. Sansa sighed heavily.

“I don’t know why you keep her at court, Joffrey,” she said frankly, “She’s so overbearing. Can’t you send her back to Casterly Rock, so we can all get on with our lives? Your Queen would also appreciate it, I imagine.”

“She- I-” Joffrey spluttered again, before regaining his decorum.

“I am the King!” he roared, “I decide who stays!”

“Of course, your grace,” Sansa smirked, with a shallow curtsey. “I know you will choose the path that brings the most harmony to your household, as a clever ruler would.”

Sansa did not remain to see if he had taken her words in. She had wasted far too much of her life in his awful presence already.

*

Sansa could not help but burn Jon with her attentive looks. Across the filled dancefloor, she willed him to ask her to tread the boards with him, but though the caught her staring, he seemed merely intimidated and confused by her attention. Sansa grimaced inwardly, but allowed nothing to show on her face as seemingly every other eligible lord in the Seven Kingdoms, lined up to ask her to dance. Eventually, Sansa squirmed away from her suitors. She was finding it very tiresome to be so adored and feared. Already, she preferred and longed for the anonymity of bastardy.

“Will you dance with me, good ser?” she eventually grew bold enough to stomp across the room, and ask him herself.

She was a Princess. Jon could not refuse, and he seemed to recognise it. Warily, Jon took hold of her hand, barely touching her as though she made his skin crawl. She could not truly fault him for it. She was beautiful and icy, like all the Lannisters. Cold and unknowable.

After they passed most of the first dance in silence, Sansa refused to allow him to escape when the set ended. Clawing onto his hand, barely noticing his wince as her sharp nails dug into his skin.

“Do you know me, somehow, Princess?” he asked her quietly. The words seemed torn out of his gritted teeth, as though he could stand the mystery no more.

“Please, call me Sansa,” she said, already forgetting about her new name.

“Sansa? Not San-say?” he clarified,

“A silly, pretentious name,” said Sansa, “I much prefer the Northern version.”

Jon’s countenance grew grim, his lips a thin white line. “I did not look to find approval in anything Northern in King’s Landing, my lady.”

“Hmm,” Sansa hummed non-committally, “You did not furnish me with your name, ser?”

“No, I didn’t,” said Jon petulantly, before relenting; “It’s Jon Sand, Princess.”

“Sansa, please,” she reminded him, “I am pleased to meet you Jon Sand.”

“Are you?” Jon demanded crossly, “Or do you already know who my father is? Is that why you scald me with your fierce looks, Sansa?”

“Fierce?” Sansa repeated, secretly thrilled with the famed Dornish fire Jon was confident enough to brandish her with.

“Why else would you seek me out, but for knowing I had the great fortune to call Ned Stark my father?” Jon snarled, stopping abruptly though the other dancers swirled about them in a confusing tangle of colours, “Before your family butchered him, that is. Do you hope to get to my brother, King Robb, through me? I won’t let you.”

Jon stood defiant and furious, glaring down at her from almost a head above her. She had not noticed she was smaller as a pretend Baratheon.

Her chest heaving with her own fury at this horribly hard situation, and the impotence she felt trapped in her new position, Sansa grew bold.

“I don’t give a damn who your father was,” Sansa hissed, hard but quiet enough that the curious dancers would not hear her, “I want you to throw me down and fuck me, until I beg for mercy.”

Jon Sand’s jaw dropped clean open in surprise. Sansa tilted up her chin, formally issuing the challenge. Then she turned and stalked back to her rooms, irritated beyond belief by this terrible version of reality.

*

Jon lasted two days of Sansa’s smouldering looks of lustful invitation until he sought her out again. Sansa had since learnt this Jon was the son of Ashara Dayne, who had assumed control of her House in her nephew’s infancy, ruling Starfall as regent. There were rumours that some suspected she planned to supplant Ned Dayne’s rightful inheritance, and set Jon up as the new lord of Starfall. And that Jon was doing all in his power to resist her, and shirk the responsibility she was desperate to give him.

They both wanted to escape, Sansa realised, observing how Ashara clung desperately to her son’s arm whenever they were together. Jon might already have plans to do so- Oberyn Martell had famously joined a sellsword company in Essos, Sansa remembered. It would be easy for Jon to do the same. With Dorne’s proximity to Essos making the option almost akin to Jon Snow joining the Night’s Watch. Both options were exclusive companies of fighting men. But Sansa would not allow it. She was a powerful woman here. She would find a way to trap Jon in King’s Landing with her, she decided. Perhaps Robb would be lenient with her, if Jon helped him survive the war somehow, from a position in court.

The terrifying Tywin Lannister arrived at court, on the day Jon cornered Sansa on a shaded terrace, surrounded by orange and lemon groves. But Sansa did not learn of Tywin’s arrival, until late in the evening, when he chose to dine with her. Her time before then was occupied completely with the biting, bruising kisses Jon pressed to her lips.

After snatching hold of her arm in the gardens, as she walked alone, Jon had pressed one salty hand to Sansa’s mouth, to muffle her shriek of surprise. Jon then dragged her out of sight. Onto the empty terrace, to bite at her mouth with his savage kisses.

“Damn you, Lannister get,” he hissed, “Damn you.”

Jon left her, her lips still tingling from the sudden but welcome assault, leaning on the latticed pagoda wall for support, her knees weak. Then Sansa grinned, savage and broad. She had him.

*

“I want a household,” said Sansa boldly.

She had been the Lady of Winterfell. She had fed Ramsay Bolton to his own dogs. She refused to be cowed by Tywin Lannister.

“Which House?” said the man who called her ‘grand-daughter’ and fixed her with knowing looks.

After dinner, he had taken her aside and invited her to his solar. Sansa had assumed she was in for a reprimand, but Tywin instead asked her what her scheme was this time. Apparently, Sansa Baratheon was well-known for her cunning.

“Casterly Rock,” she demanded, “We both know you will not allow Uncle Tyrion to inherit it. Name me your heir in his stead.”

“And pass over Kevan?” Tywin raised a single eyebrow at that.

Sansa shrugged, “Kevan is an old, un-adventurous dullard. He won’t bring any bold innovation to the Rock. No fire. Only plodding mundanity.”

“Your tongue has grown sharp,” Tywin noted with a note of disapproval. But he did not disagree with her assessment.

Sansa shrugged.

“I am my mother’s daughter,” she lied.

“And if I refuse?”

“Then I will settle for Winterfell,” Sansa said with a sigh, as though it was an inconvenience, and not what she wanted most of all.

“And how do you plan to get it? Sue for peace with Robb Stark? He already has a bride, and it will be the death of him.”

Sansa felt a stab of pain at that, but she bravely soldiered on. She could not show weakness before a man like Tywin, it would be blood to a shark. Petyr Baelish had taught her how to approach cold, hard, unemotional men like him.

“No,” said Sansa firmly, “I’m going to wed Ned Stark’s bastard son, that he begot with Ashara Dayne. He’s the Sword of the Morning,” she said, to sweeten the deal. She had been delighted to learn of Jon’s new title.

And long had Tywin desired a Valyrian steel sword for House Lannister, since Brightroar was lost. She figured Dawn, the famed, one-of-its-kind sword forged from a fallen star, would be a good enough substitute.

“If Robb Stark dies,” she said, for she knew she did not have long left in this world, and she had yet to think of a way she could save him, “Jon could be eligible for Winterfell. If not, he could accompany me to Casterly Rock and take the name Lannister, as Joffrey Lydden did to become King of the Rock. I would take it also, of course. To keep the Rock in Lannister hands.”

Tywin was not akin to Stannis Baratheon. He did not give her any indication he approved of her idea, or move to touch her with warmth.

“I will think on it,” he said severely, a brusque dismissal. But somehow, from the gleam in his cold green eyes, Sansa knew he was pleased with her showcase of political acumen and forethought.

Sansa felt hope burn in her breast as she alighted from his rooms, careful not to break into a run in her excitement. She muffled a yawn into her soft hand, exceedingly pleased with the indication her time in this world was almost at an end.


	6. Sansa Bolton & Smallfolk Jon

Sansa woke up to the truly terrifying sight of Ramsay Bolton’s ice blue eyes freezing into her. She froze, swiftly transported to her worst nightmares, her memories of his mistreatment. Shivering, her bare arms grew goose-pimples at the sight of him. She felt tears bubbling up in her eye sockets, threatening to swamp her sight and blur his deceptively handsome face from view.

“I might have known you would still be lazing a-bed, sister,” Ramsay said softly, with the smirking smile she had come to know meant danger.

“No one is fond of waking before the cock crows,” said another soft, purring voice.

It was only at that moment that Sansa registered they were not alone. Another noble man, of similar height and slight build, stood just out of clear view, tucked behind Ramsay’s shoulder. Sansa latched onto this newcomer, in faint hope she might be slightly safer with him in the room. Ramsay had always enjoyed to keep her screams for himself. Sansa locked eyes with the stranger. She found to her surprise he looked very alike Ramsay in features, though his hair had a darker curl, and his eyes were not so pale a shade of sharp blue. The other man offered her a wolfish smile.

“Get dressed sister, we will wait without,” he assured her, tapping at Ramsay’s arm.

Ramsay took the hint and left without question, but Sansa only felt she could breathe again when the door closed behind the two men, with a resounding click. She spent a long, fearful moment simply getting her breathing under control, and attempting to calm the rapid pounding of her heart. With the other man’s words, Sansa had finally registered that Ramsay had also termed her ‘sister’. She suspected the second man must therefore be Domeric Bolton, though she had not recognised him. It was not surprising; Sansa had met him once mayhaps, as a very young child, before he was fostered in the Vale. She could not bring his face to mind; she had never before had cause to try.

Sansa dressed listlessly in her new, unfamiliar room, which included a four-poster bed swathed in heavy, dark blue drapes, with pink accents. The colours of House Bolton. She shivered to note her dresses were the same, with little variation away from their House colours. She selected one of the few exceptions; a royal purple dress that reminded her of one she had once worn in King’s Landing. Not a pleasant association exactly, but at least it was not embroidered with the Flayed Man, like some of her other new acquisitions. Having no desire to hurry, she dragged her feet, brushing her newly mouse-brown hair far longer than necessary. A simple Northern side-braid kept her trembling fingers occupied for a moment longer. But at last she could delay no longer, and Sansa opened the door to her new bedchamber to find her new brothers leaning against the far wall, in quiet conversation.

“A last,” Ramsay groused. “What were you doing, trimming your bush?”

Sansa’s cheeks flamed red at such uncouth speech, but Domeric Bolton quickly came to her defence.

“Don’t be foul,” he chided, before offering Sansa a subdued smile.

“You’ve forgotten your bow, Sansa,” he pointed out helpfully.

Sansa blinked. She had not noticed a bow. Eager for any opportunity to be free from Ramsay’s awful, pale gaze, she dutifully returned to her room. Indeed, there was a bow and quiver of arrows; draped over a chair at her dresser table. With unsure hands, Sansa gathered the implements. She had seen her true brothers sling quivers over their shoulders confidently enough. Though she could not replicate the smooth movement exactly, she still managed to set the leather holster over her shoulder and buckle the clasp without issue. Taking a deep breath, Sansa once more joined the Boltons, and followed them down to the courtyard. She took a step or two toward the sparring yard, expecting there to be hay targets set out for shooting. But Domeric gave her an odd look before leading their small procession toward the stables.

Three horses were already saddled, and Sansa blanched at the notion she would be expected to ride out, alone, with these strange and dangerous men. She understood now that they were going hunting, and found she was not shocked to think of Sansa Bolton trained in arms. In the vicious Dreadfort, any sensible girl would learn how to defend herself, she reasoned, remembering Myranda, Ramsay’s girl who carried a bow of her own.

Sansa always awoke with no memories of her new surroundings, being startled and surprised each time, and forced to stumble into a new life. But gradually, as the days wore on and she settled into the new routines, she seemed to retain some innate sense of the world, some muscle memory. She knew the steps to dances she had never performed, knew who was her friend and who her foe. Some sense of the world came back to her, as though the Sansa whose mind she had suppressed was gradually shifting and waking below her borrowed skin.

Sansa had never wished so fervently that these half-memories would form, and that the other girl would push through early. She did not wish to know what horrors this world held for her. Frankly, she was ready to be done with it immediately. But it was not to be; Sansa could not risk fleeing to back into the castle. For all she knew, their destination was Winterfell, where she could cross paths with Jon Snow, and set about scheming to tie together House Bolton and House Stark at last.  Before Sansa’s marriage to Ramsay in her own world, there had been no previous mingling of the descendants of the Red and Winter Kings.

Sticking close to Domeric, Sansa rode as confidently as possible. Certain that her Bolton counterpart had indulged in far more riding across the perilous terrain of the North. If the boys thought her unusually feeble and cautious, they did not comment on it. While they shot down rabbits, squirrels and the odd pheasant, Sansa barely raised her bow. She did not doubt she would embarrass herself if she attempted to use it. Jon had shown Sansa the basics of holding a naked blade, sword and dagger both, in the training he insisted all noble women have. It was to be her last defence, if the White Walkers took Winterfell. Or if Daenerys’ undisciplined Dothraki soldiers threatened her virtue. Jon had been very wary of them, around Sansa and Arya. But he had nver taught her to use a bow.

“Not interested in hunting today, sweet sister?” asked Domeric, when they stopped to water the horses in a small stream of the Weeping Water.

Sansa shrugged. She did not know how to defend herself to these utterly foreign creatures. It was strange that she felt better equipped to navigate the Southron court of King’s Landing under Cersei’s control, than exchange pleasantries with her own countrymen. But Catelyn Stark had raised her to be a perfect Southron lady, and Bolton men were savages. She would not have had difficulty with them, had she been born into a mountain clan or on Bear Island, she suspected.

“Nothing pretty enough; not worth turning into her precious furs.” Ramsay suggested, rather snidely.

Sansa could not help but bristle. Sansa Bolton had done her best with her boringly similar wardrobe. She had noticed a lot of fur adornments about the collars and cuffs, now that she back thought on it.

“Fur is a very traditional addition to Northern dresses,” said Sansa, knowing she could not continue to ignore him.

“And you make them look very fine indeed,” Domeric assured her.

“I’m starved,” said Ramsay, cramming a lump of cheese in his mouth, quickly bored when the conversation did not support him.

Domeric rolled his eyes. “We’re taking this meat back to the castle. Father will be furious if we eat most of it again. You know there’s been a strange lack of beasts these last few months. And the Woolfields just lost all those sheep to direwolves, of all things.”

Sansa stiffened at this news, remembering her own lost direwolf. They had not been seen South of the Wall for hundreds of years. What could it mean, if in this world they were mauling sheep?

Ramsay snorted, unconvinced. “ _Direwolves._ The woolly sheep were just pissing themselves over a few large wolves howling in the night.”

“They hunted one.” Domeric said with a frown, “It was confirmed a direwolf. And there have been more wildling sightings of late, so the Umbers say. Perhaps they’re the ones hunting all our deer.”

“Fine then, let's at least exchange some squirrels for some decent broth at the mill?”

Sansa listened to the conversation with interest. She had never heard Ramsay turn to anyone else for permission before, save Roose Bolton. She supposed his trueborn brother must have commanded the same respect. Then she realised Domeric and Ramsay seemed so similar in face and form, partially because they were dressed almost identically. Sansa had seen Ramsay dressed in his House colours, and clean forgotten he should not have been legitimised in this world, at least not yet. She wondered if he was not a bastard after all here, and marvelled again at the wide variation between the worlds she had visited.

The mill proved to be a short way along the Weeping Water. They stuck close to the steam as they made their way East. Presently the arms of the windmill appeared over the canopy of the trees. Sansa fumbled as she secured her horse reins to the gateposts outside, having always had attendants to perform such a task for her. Domeric saw her struggle and kindly assisted her. She did not know why she found his actions surprising. Even malicious traitors like the Boltons must hold some love for their own kin.

Ramsay led the way into the small miller’s cottage, let in by the mature smallfolk woman. She wore a many layered skirt, and a flour-dusted apron, and her cheeks were fat and healthy.

“Please, my lords and lady, warm y’self by the fireplace,” she said warmly, indicating the benches at a table near the roaring grate.

Another door in the corner of the room opened, and a familiar young man walked in, carrying a bundle of logs to feed the fire.

“Jon love, fetch fresh bread for our distinguished guests,” said the miller woman.

Jon eyed the Boltons who had invaded his home with clear fear and mistrust. Sansa felt her mouth grow dry at the sight of him. She had never seen Jon dressed as a peasant; even a bastard of Winterfell merited Robb’s cast-offs, and fine enough garments of his own. This Jon was clad in many layers of ill-fitting, roughly-hewn shirts that were too large, and fraying breeches stained with mud.

Sansa watched with hungry eyes as Jon crossed the room and emptied his bundle into the waiting wood pail beside the fireplace. Then he obediently returned to the door from whence he came, which evidently lead to the mill proper; the grindstones for crushing grain into flour, and stone ovens where they baked their bread. Jon in this world had larger muscles than she knew him beneath her touch. It must be a result of hauling heavy sacks of flour about, she reasoned. But Sansa also noted he was smaller, his knees and elbows prominently sharp, from a poor, restricted diet. Sansa did not care if his teeth were black and he could not so much as scratch out his name. He lived, and that was all that mattered. Nonetheless, she knew she had come to the trickiest world yet. How was a man of the smallfolk ever to wed the eldest daughter of one of the oldest, most powerful and feared Houses of the North? It was laughable. Even as a hedge knight, Jon would have no hope; not even if he saved Ned Stark’s life and was granted lands to his name, as Sandor Clegane’s grandfather had been thus rewarded, by saving the life of Tytos Lannister.

Sansa knew their love would have no hope, if she alighted this body, without taking bold steps to move Sansa Bolton down a path that she would probably never consider for herself. Sansa had no doubt Roose Bolton was hoping to parade her before the Starks, Umbers and Karstarks, in the hope of a beneficial match. Sansa was surprised she was not already betrothed; but then reasoned she might be. There was no need for every betrothal to be accompanied by a fostering, after all. Sansa decided she was probably about to start a huge scandal, running away from this unknown betrothal with the miller’s boy, and smirked to think on it.

Sansa wrapped her hands about her bowl of soup when it arrived, pleased when it appeared to contain peas and chunks of ham; a particular favourite. Jon brought them a wooden tray of bread to accompany the generous spoonfuls his lowly mother ladled from the cauldron hanging over the fire. Jon winced and inhaled sharply when a chunk of bread wobbled free and landed on the floor between them.

“Forgive me-” he cringed away from the gleefully dark look suddenly breaking out over Ramsay’s face.

Sansa launched in with no thought for her own safety, feeling far braver with Jon in the room. Though he could not protect her from the likes of Ramsay Bolton; not in this world.

“There is nothing to forgive,” she assured him, carefully plucking up the fallen bread in one hand. She placed it on her lap, fully intending to eat it. A little soot was nothing compared to the miserable fare she had stomached at the Wall.

Ramsay ground his teeth together, and Sansa squared her shoulders, sitting up higher. She reminded herself of his screams as his dogs tore him apart, and allowed herself a smile. Ramsay rolled his eyes with a huff, sourly dipping his own bread in the very tasty soup.

*

Though reluctant to leave, Sansa could not disagree with Domeric’s assessment that the sky was dimming, the clouds growing thick and dark with imminent rain. Sansa knew he was right to urge that they made haste back to the safety of the Dreadfort. She could not tell him she would find no peace in that howling, bleak keep.

They urged their skilled horses on with far more haste than they had ridden out with, yet Sansa still found a moment to enjoy the sound of the Weeping Water trickling merrily over the pebbles and boulders in the stream. She carefully noted the route to the mill, noting the signature trees and other interesting features of the land. Domeric and Ramsay didn’t comment on her disinterest in her conversation. Sansa was significantly focused on her task on her intention to escape that she barely noticed Ramsay approaching her to help her dismount from her mare. Though she still feared him, she consented to take his hand, and was surprised how gently he assisted her descent to the ground.

“You seem displeased with me today, sweet sister,” he mused, refusing to relinquish her hand as Sansa stepped away from him.

“I did not sleep well,” she lied, offering him a bland smile.

She froze into place when he pressed a gentle, chivalrous kiss on her cheek. All at once, she was standing in Winterfell’s courtyard again, weeping with horror at the sight of an elderly servant that had been flayed for attempting to help Sansa. Then the image was gone, and she shuddered. Ramsay frowned at her.

“An early night, following supper in private and a soothing bath, perhaps?” he suggested, and Sansa nodded stiffly, finally pulling out of his grasp.

“Yes,” she agreed, “That would be agreeable.”

“I’ll inform your maids,” said Ramsay, and at last she was able to flee. Sansa waited until she was in a secluded corridor before she broke into a run, allowing her borrowed body to lead her where she needed to be. She flew down the passageway to her rooms, flinging down the bow she did not know how to wield, and tearing off the gloves Ramsay had touched, as though it would erase the feel of his unwanted touch.

But Sansa’s quiet night was not to be. Her maids informed her a bath must wait; Lord Roose wanted to dine with all his children that night. Sansa swallowed thickly and allowed herself to be dressed in the hated colours of House Bolton, the tangles in her loosened hair scraped out with a bone comb, and re-braided in a half-up, half-loose style.

Feeling distinctly like an unwanted guest, Sansa found herself escorted to the feast on Domeric’s arm, extremely glad he was the eldest brother. She did not know if she could stand for Ramsay to touch her again.

Roose Bolton’s cold eyes froze her in place for a moment when they entered his solar. Whatever conversation he desired to impart with his children, it was to be a private one. The servants were dismissed as soon as the food was distributed across the table. Ramsay began piling his place almost immediately, but Sansa’s unsettled stomach warned her against doing the same.

At length, the callous man spoke.

“Robb Stark has called the banners to Winterfell,” he revealed, and Sansa almost dropped her fork, clanging it against her plate.

Domeric sent her a concerned look, but Sansa ignored him in favour of Roose.

“Yes, I see that unsettles you, child,” he said, “And I also. The boy has not yet reached maturity, and so still acts on the advice of his regent.”

“Benjen Stark would not call the banners without just cause,” said Domeric.

“No indeed,” Roose agreed, “A cautious, quiet man. It took him years to finally wed Catelyn Tully and provide the North with another heir. He would not blindly rush into war without just cause.”

Sansa slowly processed the information with a churning, uneasy stomach. This world was very far removed from her own. If Uncle Benjen had not taken the Black, but remained at Winterfell as Robb’s regent, that meant her father had died when Robb was still a boy. Had he even returned from Robert’s Rebellion? Perhaps that was why Benjen had never left. He was the remaining Stark in Winterfell until Robb was old enough to take charge. She swallowed thickly, and listened attentively as Roose Bolton outlined the North’s call to war. Not in the South, as she would have expected, against the Lannisters for some other reason than the false imprisonment of Ned Stark. They were instead being called upon to head North, to the Wall, to go beyond it and battle some terrible threat the Night’s Watch could not handle unassisted.

Sansa gave up all pretence of partaking in the meal, clutching onto the arms of her chair with clawed fingers. The Others were advancing at an accelerated pace, she suspected. Without Benjen at the Wall, a famed Ranger in his time, nor Jon either, their one-time Lord Commander in her world, it seemed the Night’s Watch had suffered greatly.

There was no time, Sansa realised. The Northern army would appeal to the Crown for help, and the Lannisters would dismiss them. Robert Baratheon would not care for their plight, if the plea did not come from Ned Stark, who seemed to be long-dead. By the time the South took the issue seriously, it would be far too late. The North was already lost.

In some ways it was the opportunity Sansa needed. Roose had tried to suggest Ramsay remain in the Dreadfort, whilst he took his heir along to Winterfell. But Ramsay would not have it.

“I’ll not languish in these gloomy halls, while you and Dom earn glory on the battlefield,” Ramsay snarled, “The wildlings will soon learn to run screaming from my blade and bow. I’ll flay the skin from a giant’s bones before this war is at an end- see if I don’t.”

He was belligerent enough, that Roose did not bother trying to dissuade him, merely sighing heavily. Roose fixed Sansa with his icy eyes once more, suddenly seeming to remember her presence in the room.

“Until we return, the Fort is yours,” he thus anointed Sansa with all the power she would need, to implement her rapidly-forming plan.

Furnished thus, Sansa waved her supposed kin goodbye from the battlements two days later with a sharp smile on her face.

*

If the master-of-horse was curious about why the temporary Lady of the Dreadfort desired to know how to saddle her horse without help, he did not show it. Sansa practiced tightening the straps, buckles and knots until she could complete the action automatically in the pitch dark.

She had requested her meals in her rooms for the past few nights. She could not risk the unexpected return of any Bolton forces,  she had forced herself to be patient. On the night of the new moon, when the sky was the darkest it would be for an entire moon, Sansa slipped from her rooms with the packs of food she had hidden away in her room, by requesting large amounts each night, and eating less than her usual fill.

She had dressed in a sigil-less blue travelling dress, and sturdy boots. She saddled her mare and another strong horse, in as close to silence as she could muster. Tying the reins of the other horse to her saddle with her new knowledge of knots, Sansa slipped out of the stables quietly. She could do nothing to prevent the guards at the gate from seeing her face, as she demanded to be let out. She had not found a secret way out of the Dreadfort, if there was one. But once they had lowered the drawbridge, Sansa took a deep breath and whipped out her new bow. She allowed the body she had now occupied for several days to take charge – enough time had passed to regain its muscle memory.

She shot the two gatehouse guards with sharp arrows and pity in her heart, but not enough to stay her hand. If they raised the alarm and sent men after her, Sansa would never get to Jon. And she was already feeling tired.

*

“Lady Sansa?” Jon stared at her in askance, holding a bright candle aloft. It was the only light in the black, starless night of a new moon.

“Good eve, Jon,” said Sansa politely, as though she had not appeared like an apparition, moulded from the dark.

“Are you alone?” Jon asked, “Where are your guards, your brothers, my lady?”

“Hush,” said Sansa, “Don’t wake your mother if she’s sleeping.”

Jon frowned, and beckoned her into the tiny cottage. His mother was snoring on a straw pallet beside the banked fire. Jon’s own pallet lay waiting for him, furnished only with a threadbare blanket. Jon blushed when he noticed her gaze taking in their meagre lifestyle. He could not know how little Sansa cared about all that. Jon was Jon. His heart remained the same, no matter his origins, she was sure of it. He was sullen but respectful, and so very easy to love. Sansa attempted to ease his worries with a soft smile.

Jon did not seem encouraged.

“Your family will be worried for you, my lady,” he whispered, “Lord Bolton-”

“Is gone to Winterfell, with my brothers both,” said Sansa, “So I am forced to travel alone, you see.”

“To travel, my lady?”

Sansa nodded, laying her pack on the bare table. From inside she pulled a thick black cloak edged in warm bear fur she had stolen from Domeric’s rooms.

“I need to reach White Harbour, urgently,” she said, fixing Jon with her beautiful blue eyes. Her hair was not a lovely red here, but her eyes were still arresting.

“That’s very far, my lady,” Jon frowned, clearly concerned for her.

“Yes,” Sansa agreed, “And I do not know the way. I need a guide Jon. Can you take me there?”

“Me?” said Jon, dumbfounded. “Your Father’s men-”

“Cannot know,” Sansa insisted. “So you see, if you will not accompany me, I needs must go alone.”

Jon seemed deeply troubled by this pronouncement. He glanced back at his slumbering mother, clearly worried how she would cope, and what she would think when she woke up to find him gone. Sansa had thought of that, however. When raiding her counterpart’s drawers for jewels and coins, she found a coin-purse with House Bolton’s sigil and her new initials. Jon’s eyes widened when she set down the bulging pouch. Sansa placed it on the previously empty table, along with a note she had already written. It simply stated; ‘Jon will be safe with me, I promise. Sansa.’

No doubt it would be some days before someone would come seeking flour or bread and be able to decipher it for the miller woman. The reassurance that his mother would not be destitute without him, seemed to make up Jon’s mind.

“I know the way through the Hornwood forest, and the foothills of the Sheepshead Hills,” he said confidently, “It’s South-West on from there.”

“Oh, Jon,” she trilled, overjoyed but mindful she must remain quiet, “Thank you!”

He ducked his head, bashful at being praised by such a grand lady.

Sansa plunged her hand back into her saddle-bag, pulling out more clothes. These she had stolen from Ramsay, who was broader in the shoulder, but shorter than Domeric, therefore creating more chance that they would fit Jon. He blanched at the sight of the fine garments she thrust at him.

“Lady Sansa- I could not- a lord’s clothes!” he stuttered, mortified.

“Jon,” said Sansa firmly, “It is bitterly cold when the wind bellows, and I am a Lady. Do you not think we will be noted upon, a lady and a man of the smallfolk riding alone, if we come across other riders?”

Jon twitched, his pride battered by her frank pronouncement. There was no denying that his new status could not be mistaken in this world. At length he nodded, and Sansa turned her back, so he could scramble to re-dress in the rapidly cooling room. Jon folded his former rags neatly on his pallet, so carefully that Sansa’s heart hurt. They were likely the best clothes he had ever had in this life, and she had dismissed them without thought. But Jon seemed to shake off any lingering embarrassment as he quietly stoked the fire, and pressed a gentle kiss to his mother’s brow.

Then he followed her into the dark, kind and trusting and so nearly her’s that Sansa had to forcefully bite down on a gleeful laugh.

The North was likely lost, Sansa had concluded, so she had not felt any guilt at stripping the Boltons of all the wealth she could carry; slipping into the family rooms to steal silver clasps and belt buckles, spare coin purses and Roose’s spare sword. As much as she could drag down to the stables unassisted. Sansa had also ripped a page containing a crude map of the North, and an even cruder map of Essos out of a book helpfully in her chambers. Though Sansa would not tell Jon until they reached White Harbour, they were bound for Braavos.

Well she remembered when her Jon had confirmed to them that the Others could not swim. She had no desire to leave her counterpart trapped in the North, segregated from Jon, when the Others came. She had even written herself a letter, safe in her breast pocket inside her dress. If she alighted this body before they left the shores of Westeros, the letter told her counterpart a great disaster was coming to the North. Urging her to flee East with Jon, where she could find work as a seamstress, and he a baker or miller. Sansa had recognised her own work; the Flayed Man embroidered on her Bolton dresses. She knew she had the skills to provide an income for herself in Braavos, the only Free City where there was no risk of being captured by slavers.

Sansa did not know what happened to the bodies she occupied when she left them. She could only hope they would retain some hazy memories of her intentions, the same way she had an inkling from them about their lives and friendships. She hoped she would see this adventure through to boarding a ship in White Harbour, however. It would set her mind at ease. But as Jon awkwardly mounted the horse beside her, Sansa reached out to squeeze his arm, and knew that when the other girl took back her body and woke beside him, the pure nature of their love would bind them together once more.

 


	7. Robb Stark & Sansa Karstark & Jon Snow

Sansa woke up to the welcome sensation of a kiss on her lips. She purred in satisfaction, reaching up to brush her soft hand through familiar curls. His beard seemed thicker than usual, but Sansa still let Jon’s name fall from her lips, infinitely glad to begin her next adventure in such a pleasurable manner. She became aware of a proprietary hand on the naked, sleep-warm skin of her bare breast, just as she heard the wrong brother speak.

“Afraid it’s just me, this morn,” said Robb, tugging on her right nipple.

“Oh!” squeaked Sansa, her eyes flying open in surprise, thankfully with the excuse of her elder brother’s hands playing with her breast, readily available for her shocked reaction.

Although it was immediately evident that Robb was not her brother in this world. Not judging by the expanse of naked, muscled and lightly freckled skin above her, as Sansa lay prone, her shock allowing her to do little else.

“Robb,” she said, too startled to say anything else.

“Yes, my love?”

Sansa could not conjure a reply to that. Robb was smiling down at her with wolfish hunger. He carried no shame or furtiveness, as there might be, if Robb considered himself to be bedding his sister. Sansa’s silence seemed to please him; as though she were dumb with desire. Robb ducked his head and took one of her hard nipples into his mouth, to suck and nip and abuse the tender flesh. Sansa moaned and whimpered in helpless lust. She found her nails clawing roughly at his scalp and brown curls, without much thought.

Robb slipped a smooth hand down her naked belly, to press the pads of his fingers to the secretive place of pleasure between her thighs. Sansa did not have long to consider that Robb might actually have been her half-brother in her real life, making this tumble a shade less sinful. This body was weak for Robb’s caresses, and Sansa allowed herself to be swept along by the raging hunger for Robb suddenly burning under her skin. Robb shimmied down the featherbed, replacing his fingertips with his tongue. Causing Sansa to yelp, and squeeze his face between her strong thighs. She might actually have torn hairs from Robb’s scalp, as she scraped her nails against his skull, and clutched onto his hair. Robb grunted in pain, but he did not cease licking her open. Sansa whined and closed her eyes, as waves of pleasure washed over her.

She offered up a silent apology to Jon. She knew he had once had another lover, but that woman was long dead by the time they reunited. Jon and Sansa had been faithful to one another, since they shared their first kiss. And Sansa knew that if their positions were reversed, Jon would be strong enough to resist tainting their union, with a betrayal such as this. Perhaps Sansa might also have been, if she had been approached in the cool light of day by another suitor. She had certainly denied the interested parties she had enchanted as a bastard Princess, in the court of King’s Landing. But this lustful assault on her senses had begun while she was still half-asleep and unbridled because of it. This Sansa had no desire to push Robb away.

And so Sansa Stark made no protest when her brother spread her open and thrust inside of her. She moaned helplessly and clawed at Robb’s back with her vicious talons. She did not offer up a single protest, allowing her true brother to fuck her roughly. She had never before been such a true protégé of Cersei Lannister, Sansa realised with dark amusement, before she lost all rational thought. Swept away on a tide of sinful pleasure, as Robb made love to her.

*

One of the fun aspects of Sansa’s new life of tumbling through worlds was her ever-changing stream of dresses. It pleased her to try out so many different styles and colours, and she had never before been the owner of dresses with such a range of plunging necklines. Clearly, this Sansa wanted to be noticed, and did not care to hide her larger than normal cleavage behind modest designs. Sansa felt another illicit thrill run through her as she selected a two-piece; a many-layered underskirt, and a kind of long-sleeved robe with a laced bodice which completed it. It gave the overall impression she was wearing a single garment once the she had pulled the laces taught, with a neckline that remained exposed to her waist, just as some of Margaery Tyrell’s dresses had.

Robb gave her a bright smile when she entered the hall; he was seated alone on the dias, with a spare throne beside him. Sansa wondered if perhaps he was the King in the North again, but murmurs addressing her as ‘Lady Stark’ seemed to deny the idea. She made her way demurely across the room, looking for all the world like a regal lady, and not a woman who had been unable to find a single scrap of cloth that resembled smallclothes amongst her clothing. Apparently, Robb’s wife was somewhat of a harlot, Sansa thought with an amused smile.

It proved to be truer than she had suspected. Luncheon had barely passed, with Sansa leading a sewing circle of unfamiliar young ladies all morn, before she apparently had a meeting in her solar. A guard prompted her to ‘remember’ the meeting, and Sansa made her way alone back toward the family apartments. She shared the Lord’s Chamber with Robb, but found that the rooms traditionally the Lady’s Chamber had remained a large solar, as her mother had kept it. Sansa was surprised and pleased to find Jon waiting for her.

Greeting him warmly, Sansa was barely done speaking before Jon claimed her mouth in a hard, jealous kiss. She moaned loudly, taking his face into both of her hands, running her fingers through his dark curls. Jon took advantage of her shameless neckline, pressing his hand against the swell of her breast, wriggling questing fingers below the fabric to pinch her nipple. Sansa hissed into his mouth, and felt him beginning to unlace her dress. She allowed him to push the top-most garment down from her shoulders, leaving her bare-breasted, clad only in the padded underskirt. Jon fumbled with his own laces, and as soon as he pressed his breeches down, Sansa took him into her hand, working her clever fingers over his sensitive flesh.

Jon sighed heavily, throwing his head back as Sansa worked him to full hardness. Then he unceremoniously lifted her skirt to take hold of one of her legs, pressing Sansa against the grained wood of the door. He pressed kisses to and suckled hard at her heavy breasts, causing Sansa to squirm. Jon seemed unsurprised to find her naked below her skirt, grinding inside her with controlled, passionate movements, that had her moaning loudly enough to warrant a hand over her mouth.

Sansa squeezed her legs about her illicit lover’s waist, howling shamelessly when he quickly worked her to her peak.

*

“The maids tell me you did not visit the nursery today?” said Robb, as Sansa brushed out her hair for the night, seated before her mother’s looking glass.

She almost let go of her hairbrush in shock, but clamped down her fumbling fingers before it could fall from her grasp.

“I did not find the time,” Sansa said, having no defence ready to leap to her lips.

She could not meet his eyes. Robb had been sweet and attentive when they broke their fast, and seemed in all ways a good husband. Sansa felt ashamed to know she was an adulteress, cuckolding Robb with their brother. Behind her back, Robb sighed. He approached her cautiously, dropping a kiss to the soft skin exposed at the back of Sansa’s neck, from where she had draped her brunette hair to one side.

“I know our daughter is difficult,” said Robb, “Loud and demanding. But she adores you, Sansa.”

“I will look in on her in a moment,” Sansa promised, quite unsettled by the idea of a child of her own.

She and Jon had not yet been blessed so. It seemed wrong that she could ever have borne the babe of another. It had been a long time indeed since she had desired any but Jon to father her future babes.

The idea of posing as a mother disturbed Sansa. It was one thing to deceive full-grown men for necessity. But to steal the life of a mother, and tend to her children as an imposter in her own skin, felt wrong and immoral. Yet it could not be more immoral than laying with a man Sansa would always consider her brother, despite how the world fluctuated around her, and she had allowed herself to do so. In the end, Sansa decided it would be more cruel to withhold affection from an innocent child, who would no doubt vastly prefer unexperienced cosseting over sudden abandonment.

Sansa duly wrapped herself in a warm robe and made her way along the stone passage to the nursery. A small girl, already tucked in bed and perhaps four or five years old, blinked sleepily from among her warm furs.

“Mama,” called the little girl, and Sansa swept through the room to sit beside her.

Up close, she was startled to find she recognised the little bundle of dark, difficult-to-tame hair, and long Northern features.

“Arya,” Sansa breathed out, a wide smile spreading across her cherry-red lips. “How was your day, sweet girl?”

Arya launched into a charming rendition of her adventures running away from her maids and beating a boy named Ned Cassel with a wooden sword, and Sansa laughed and laughed, pressing sweet kisses to her tiny sister’s face. After drawing her into a warm hug, Sansa bid the little girl goodnight, charmed when Arya yawned hugely and almost immediately fell asleep.

*

Sleep was not yet on the cards for Sansa. She was stiff at first, beneath Robb’s demanding kisses, her guilt at her counterpart’s affair like a stone weight in her stomach. But gradually she melted, stroking the soft beard at the side of his face, then wrapping her arms about his shoulders. Robb was warm and welcoming, smoothing his hands down her back confidently, so that Sansa could not believe how right and easy it felt to once more commit this sin.

But they were interrupted before they could fornicate again; a sharp rap at the door that had Sansa springing out of Robb’s arms, as though she expected their Father to be glaring on the other side. But of course that was not so; Ned Stark had passed on, making Robb the Lord of Winterfell. Though Sansa remained a Stark in this world, it was with some removal from the main line, and the important addition of three extra letters to her House name. Though in truth Stark and Karstark were one blood, kin, she had learnt this version of her was a distant cousin to Robb Stark. Thus fit to be his bride, though Sansa’s shame was not quelled by the knowledge.

Robb was of course unbothered by their interactions, which were normal and correct for him. He was unapologetic, as he bounded across the room to the doorway, even though it would be evident by the disarray of his clothes and hair to the caller what they had lately been doing. Sansa blushed to know a guard was probably amused by the sight, as the Robb opened the chamber door.

But it was not a guard that Robb allowed into their bedchamber, unsurprised, as though a guest was expected, despite his previous conduct toward his lady wife. Sansa had understood by Robb’s advances that they had retired for the night. She was not anticipating a guest, and certainly not expecting to see Jon and Robb alone with her in a room. Not now she was aware of her counterpart’s deception. Sansa was only allowed a swift moment of disquiet, which quickly morphed into disbelief, when Robb greeted Jon with warm words and a soft, chaste kiss.

Sansa had never seen two men kiss before; she had barely seen her parents behave intimately with one another, and they were the most loving couple she had encountered. She was thrilled by it, though their kiss was only a firm, dry meeting of closed lips. She squirmed, flush with shame to be aroused at the sight. No doubt her wantonness was a result of his body’s brazen behaviour.

She was unfazed when Jon and Robb turned their attentions to her, beginning to unrobe her together. Sansa found that this highly irregular arrangement between the brothers – for she had learnt Jon was Robb’s brother in this world, and his mother a maid in the castle – was preferable to cheating upon her lord husband, even if he was not the man she would have selected for herself.

It would be days before Sansa learnt that this odd arrangement had come about due to a sickness that had swept across the North, making the people less fertile. Not a single highborn child had been born to any Northern House in five years, and it was only a few children born amongst the smallfolk that gave them hope their people were not entirely barren. In desperate need of a male heir, Robb had decided that two men had a better chance than one. This version of Sansa had agreed, so long as either sire had Stark blood. The unorthodox solution was better than reducing their chances of a male heir. Sansa saluted her other self’s bold step to get Jon into her bed, and was almost envious that other woman also enjoyed Robb’s attentions.

Jon’s love had always been enough for Sansa, but she was quickly overwhelmed by the two men’s combined attentions, reaching her peak with Robb between her thighs and Jon suckling her breasts. After giving her his seed, Robb flopped down beside her, and tenderly brushed a lock of hair from Sansa’s reddened face.

“Are you satisfied, my lovely, sweet girl?”

Sansa hummed in agreement, petting a tired hand in Jon’s hair. Then men had worn her out; they had commenced their carnal activities, with Sansa between them, making use of both her holes. She had never had a man in her arse before, but this body was accustomed to it enough to feel no pain. There had only been an irresistible feeling of fullness and love to be trapped between her brothers, Robb sucking the moans from her lips as Jon pressed his hot mouth to her neck.

Now, there was only one last thing Sansa desired to see again before she dropped into an exhausted slumber.

“Will you do something for me, sweet husband?” she trilled to Robb, running a gentle hand down his neck, to rest on his shoulder.

Robb took her hand in his and pressed a kiss to the back of it.

“Anything, love,” he promised.

“Will you kiss Jon again? Properly this time.” asked Sansa, with a sweet smile.

The two men blinked at her in surprise. Then Jon grinned lusciously, exhilarated by her lustiness.

“Would that thrill you, Sansa?”

“Oh, yes,” she breathed out, looking between them with hope.

Robb did not deny her, clearly deeply committed to his wife’s happiness. The men sat up and faced one another, with Sansa laying prone between them, so she was afforded a beautiful view as Robb took Jon into his arms, somewhat awkwardly at first. Their kiss was tentative, and slow, until Jon let out a lovely moan, and pulled Robb closer, appearing to suck on his tongue. Sansa grinned when Robb responded with a nip to Jon’s lips, drawing him close.

Her borrowed body hummed with satisfaction, and she wondered if the joining of the two brothers was a sin too far for her counterpart. Mayhaps she had been too afraid to ask.

Robb and Jon broke apart, panting heavily, their eyes darkening when they noticed Sansa had slid a single hand between her own legs, her fingers playing with her lower lips.

“Don’t stop,” Sansa panted, shamelessly, “Touch each other.”

Robb seemed unsure, but he moaned quick enough when Jon immediately took hold of him, then dropped low to the covers to replace his hand with his mouth. As though Jon had merely been waiting for Sansa’s permission, to ravish her husband. She grinned broadly, levering herself up to taste the hungry, shocked moans falling from Robb’s mouth, as Jon worked him to completion with his talented tongue.

She could not believe it was still only her first night in this world, and determined she would enjoy every wicked moment, while it lasted.


	8. Night Sansa & Jon Snow Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Link to art for this chapter in the end notes!

Sansa woke in the snow. She was lying prone in a snow drift; she should be frozen to death, or at the very least her bare, gloveless hands should be black with frostbite. But her pale skin was not even reddened, and there was no pain. She sat up in horror, and stared about herself in wonderment. Snow covered as far as the eye could see. The only features in her landscape were jagged mountains in the distance, and a smattering of bare black rocks to the east. Sansa gaped, caught somewhere between wonderment and terror. There was only one place upon the shores of Westeros that looked like this, she was sure of it. The lands Beyond the Wall. Was Sansa a wildling in this life? Or were all of House Stark merely some clan of savages? Mayhaps in a world where Bran the Builder never built Winterfell. Does that mean there will be no Wall? Or will she find herself confronting that massive structure from the wrong side, and be cut down by Black Brothers, believing her a savage?

One thing was certain; Sansa would not survive alone in the icy wilderness for long. She did not have any of the necessary skills to survive. Even if she came across an animal, she had no means or knowledge how to hunt it. As she stood, she was quickly forced to reassess that assumption. To her great surprise, there was a sword holstered to her hip. Tentatively, Sansa unsheathed the heavy weapon. She was expecting to find an ancient sword of the First Men, made from bronze. Instead she was confronted by something far more mysterious and ancient.

Her thin blade appeared to be made of ice, or else some kind of crystal. Razor-thin and seemingly as sharp. Swallowing thickly, Sansa swiftly returned what little of the blade she unholstered to its sheath, not wishing to see any more. It was already all too strange of a situation. Utterly foreign to everything she knew about the world.

It was said Father’s sword Ice had been named for the ancient ancestral sword of the Kings of Winter, an actual sword of ice. Sansa had never believed such tales. Just as she had dismissed most of Old Nan’s creepy stories of the monsters in the snow, all of which turned out to be true. Likely to terrify herself out of her own wits, Sansa set her chin and began to march toward the mountains, merely to give herself a goal. She had not half a hope of accomplishing her mission, such as it was, but at least it was a destination she could see. It felt comforting to have an achievement to work towards. It was a worthy distraction from the strangeness of her surroundings.

She was wearing a dark purple dress, a colour she mistook for black at first, until she moved and observed the shimmering colours, like a slick of black oil in the sun. It was an entirely impractical design for moving in snow, and yet Sansa found she did not plunge down into the drift with each footfall, as she expected. Instead she glided smoothly, a sedate pace she felt utterly in control of. She moved with startling ease, but resolved to ignore the sense of foreboding that gave her.

Sansa did not feel as cold as she expected, either, dressed only in her beautiful yet ragged dress, with no cloak or woollen underlayers. Sansa was endlessly curious about how this version of herself came to be out here in the wilderness. Clearly, she was with some means, to be clad in finery with a singularly unique sword. Yet she was utterly alone, no sign of any settlement or kin nearby. It was perplexing, and she amused herself on her likely fruitless journey, by spinning elaborate tales in her mind of how this circumstance came about.

Sansa tried not to waste too much time lamenting the loss of Jon. It is highly unlikely any encounter between them here would go well, unless he was a wildling also. Mayhaps he was. Or mayhaps she had replaced his long-lost wildling lover, the one who died in his arms attacking Castle Black. Somehow, Sansa did not believe it so. All the wildlings she ever met dressed in sensible, if roughly-hewn furs. None of this impractical frippery, lush and beautiful though it was, with a plunging neckline that would make Margaery Tyrell proud. Sansa let out a ridiculous giggle at the thought of Margaery wading in the snow beside her.

She stopped abruptly, and affected another laugh, only to hear the sound again. The horrible, rough and rasping sound sent shivers down her spine. How on planetos did she come by such a ruined voice? Sansa hoped it was simply an affect of dehydration or starvation, and not something more sinister. Though if she was ill, the effects would be confined to this body alone. She had quickly learnt it was only her mind that crossed between worlds.

Sansa shook the tension from her shoulders, determined to give no name to her fears. Mayhaps if she did not look them in the eye, they would cease to exist. A cold wind howled past her, whipping her long hair into a frenzy. Sansa could feel the pieces above her ears were braided to keep it out of her eyes, but the majority hung loose. When it was tugged about by the wind, Sansa noticed for the first time, that her hair in this world was as white as the snow surrounding her in all directions.

Swallowing down the bile that rose in her throat, Sansa began to jape with herself, wondering if she was an old woman here. She ignored the smooth, and wrinkle-free skin of her pale bare forearms and hands.

*

Sansa moved swifter than she thought herself capable. It seemed as though a full day should have passed, to cover even a quarter of the distance, between her outset and the mountains. Yet the position of the weak sun seemed to have barely moved, and she now stood at the foothills. With a heavy sigh, though she was not tired, Sansa slumped down to a sit in the snow, miserably alone. She ignored the fact her lightweight body barely seemed to make an impact in the compact powder-like ground.

Sansa breathed deeply, somewhat irritated when the cold did not burn her lungs like it should have. She could not say how long she sat, waiting to die, or else for something of import to happen. Had the far North been completely cleared of monsters? Was she the last living soul in Westeros? She could think of no other reason why she might be so alone in the endless ocean of white that surrounded her.

*

Like a shadowcat catching scent of a wounded rodent, Sansa twitched, her whole body stiffening and sharpening into focus. As if a hand had reached into her chest and wrenched her to her feet, Sansa found herself stalking through the snow with unknown purpose.

Hills gradually became a mountain pass. But she did not climb high before beginning to descend again, into a snow-capped forest, glistening with frost, like tiny diamonds twinkling from the evergreen branches. Despite these lovely features of the natural world, the forest remained dark and uninviting. Sansa felt detatched from the beauty and the fear both; she responded only to the urge to move. To track and follow whatever presence was summoning her.

A hundred ravens scattered from the trees as she slinked through the rotted, wet forest floor. Sansa paid their squawking no mind. Her focus was entirely occupied by the faint glow she instinctually turned toward. A distant glimmer that sang out to her, like a single note plucked on a harp, left hanging in the still, silent air.

*

Sansa saw Jon long before he suspected her presence.

He was alone, or appeared to be, and he shone like a fallen star, a faint, pulsing blue that made Sansa shiver in hunger. She wanted to be close to him, in a primal, viseral way, that felt far more ancient than her usual hunger for his touch. She wanted to call out to him, but she refrained. He would not want her in this form, she already knew.

Sansa pressed her white hand to the sturdy trunk of a pine, observing her bloodless fingers with the faintest trace of interest. The knowledge that she should feel horrified to be so inhuman came to her as a simple fact, tied to no emotion. Sansa realised she felt only free, and strong. And desperately intrigued by Jon.

Jon was struggling to find dry wood, to build up a fire. Eventually he sat, his back against bare bark, with a meagre pile of sticks. Even when the fire was lit, Jon shivered, pressing as close as he dared. Sansa waited for others to come, knowing he should not be out Beyond the Wall alone. But if he had set out with a party, Jon had lost them along the way. Jon remained alone, huddled in his furs, and eventually dropped off into a fitful slumber.

Sansa crept closer, bolder under the cover of darkness. The starry sky was swamped with black clouds, and a dim mist began to creep over the trees, muffling the forest in the eerie stillness of night.

Sansa watched Jon for hours, no ache in her knees from kneeling at the edge of the small clearing. She felt no chill from the night air on her bare neck and hands. Jon shuffled in his sleep, still glittering with an enchanting glow that fascinated her.

Just before dawn, Sansa stiffened. They were not alone.

The shambling, decaying creature scrambled with terrifying speed. Not knowing how to retain the element of surprise, it opened its gaping, rotten maw, and screamed. Sansa was not afraid as she shot up to her feet. She was furious.

Jon woke in terror, almost scalding himself in the smouldering embers of his banked fire. He drew his sword as naturally as though it was an extension of his arm. Sansa did not need to intervene. It would not be wise to reveal herself to Jon in this world; she knew it, though she was not ready to admit why. Yet rage was clouding her judgement. She stepped closer, unnoticed by Jon or the undead monster.

The creature did not speak. It was only capable of making a yowling screeching yawp, shrill and rasping and terrifying. Sansa wanted to feel fear, knew that she should be afraid of the hideous monster, and yet she could not conjure the correct corresponding emotion. It was as though her own feelings and reactions were restricted from her, the way sound was pressed and muffled underwater. Everything but the fury, humming in her bones.

She also felt a faint disgust. But not enough to provoke a physical reaction, like a shudder or dry heave. For the most part, Sansa had felt nothing but a growing awareness of her own power, gathering in strength the longer she remained trapped in this alien creature's flesh. Sansa felt that same power surging in her now.

Sansa did not need to lock eyes with the creature, nor command it with her abrasive voice. She felt a curious connection with the undead wretch, like an invisible spool of thread hanging loose between them, wrapped about them both. Sansa willed the thread to break; wished for the horrifying noise to stop, the undead beast to return to its truly dead state. She willed it, so it was.

The unnaturally blue eyes of the creature snapped toward her, as fast as though its neck was being broken by unseen hands. Then, like a Tyroshi marionette with its strings cut, the withered skeleton crumbled into a heap of rotten bones, without so much as another twitch. The mystical light was gone from its eyes, and Sansa felt something in her chest ease.

She turned her focus toward Jon, and found him staring at her, with eyes blown wide in fear and disbelief.

*

Jon swung his sword around to point it toward her, steading the heavy weapon with a second hand upon the hilt. Sansa waited with baited breath, but he did not advance. At length, she opened her palms at waist height, as if to show him she was unarmed. Jon glared at her, steading himself, with braced shoulders and a clenched jaw. He took a threatening step toward her, and Sansa closed her eyes, pressing down her sudden instinct to elimiate the threat. Jon was not her enemy. She would not harm him in this life or any other.

There was a long still moment, poignant and quiet. Sansa opened her eyes to see dawn's rosy fingers were just beginning to spread across the sky, a maiden's pink blush. Jon was frowning at her, unsettled by her lack of defence. Sansa went a step further to make her intentions clear; dropping to her knees, hands still palm up. She bared her pale neck for the stinging kiss of his sword.

Jon took three powerful steps toward her, raising his blade, but Sansa did not close her eyes again. She looked her love in the eye, glad that his face would be the last thing she saw.

But the blow did not come. Jon's sword hovered in the air as his grey eyes poured doubt and disquiet into her unnaturally blue eyes. Jon trembled, his fingers flexing on the blade. Eventually it became too uncomfortable for him to hover uncertainly, and slowly, relunctantly, he lowered his weapon. Sansa remained kneeling, knowing he was scared and confused by her serenity.

Jon took a step back, glancing at the heap of decaying bones that she had destroyed. He indicated the dead wight with his sword.

"You destroyed it?"

Sansa opened her mouth, then closed it just as quickly. She knew this body could not speak the common tongue. She spoke only the Other language, which had no known name. Instead she offered Jon a short, sharp nod. His eyes widened. He had not expected a responce. Mayhaps he did not think her capable of rational thought.

"Why?" Jon demanded.

Sansa did not attempt an answer. She stared at him, stoically, and at length Jon huffed, frustrated. He chewed on his lower lip, before seeming to trust her continued inaction, finally re-searching his sword. Sansa did not move, as he took another step away from her.

"You showed me mercy," said Jon, "And I can do the same. Go!"

He pointed to the depths of the forest, the opposite direction of the Wall, Sansa somehow knew. She remained staring at him, unimpressed. Jon glared at her, taking several steps backward, always keeping her in his sights. He gestured again to the dark thicket, where the trees grew close together. Sansa knew they were at a stalemate. Daintily, she rose to her dignified willowy height, and slipped into the snowy forest the way she was bid.

She did not go far. Into enough shadow that Jon could no longer see her. But his irresistable glow called out to Sansa, making it impossible for her to lose track of him. She followed Jon's progress toward the Wall for the better part of a day, doing little to conceal her movements.

Eventually, Jon grew tired of the charade. He whirled around in a ripple of black furs, and roared at her to show herself. Indignant at his tone, Sansa petulantly kept him waiting, before at last she glided into his vision gracefully.

"You're following me," said Jon crossly.

Sansa stared at the magnificent shining light that surrounded him, like the shine of the sun at the edge of a cloud. Jon had long commanded her attention, but never before in such a mysterious and magical way. She wanted to run her hands all over him, and see if the blue-white light changed hue at her touch.

"Why?" Jon demanded, "What do you want?"

Sansa could not answer.

"Speak, gods be damned!"

" _Stop being so rude,_ " said Sansa, in her rough, gutteral voice; a terrible sound that was like the shattering of ice underfoot.

Jon reared back, appalled at the foreign nature of her new tongue. Sansa pressed an apologetic hand to her throat, shaking her head sadly. They could not readily communicate, now she was trapped in this stange body.

"You can't speak the Common Tongue, can you?" asked Jon.

Sansa shook her head again. Jon frowned, repeatedly running his eyes over her. As though he might be able to fathom her, if only he looked hard enough.

"Yet you can understand me," he observed, and Sansa tilted her head in agreement.

Jon glanced all about them, seemingly wary of an ambush. But Sansa knew that the only creatures about them for many miles, living or otherwise, were small animals and birds.

"Stop following me," said Jon, feeling brave enough to make demands.

Sansa took a step toward him, and his sword-hand immediately flew to the hilt of Longclaw. She stilled, and at length he relaxed again. At that, Sansa offered him a subdued smile, which only seemed to unnerve Jon more.

"What do you want?" he asked belligerently.

Sansa raised an unimpressed eyebrow, to remind him how they had just established he did not want to hear her voice. Jon sighed, frustrated. He flicked out a hand, waving it to encompass the forest, distant mountains and snow covered plains, visible now though the trees.

"These lands are vast," he said, "We need never meet again. Why dog my steps, demon? Don't you have wildlings you plan to terrify and torture?"

Sansa glared, at the insinuation that she had an innately evil nature. Suddenly, Jon's breath became visible, and Sansa became aware of a cold mist creeping in. She watched him shudder, growing silent as the eerie white fog grew thicker about them. Sansa knew she was causing it, but not how. As she had with the wight, she pulled on something deep inside of her, willing it the fog to dissipate. Jon breathed easier when the trees about them became visible again.

"If you're not going to leave, can you do something useful?" he asked boldly, "Like help me hunt?"

Sansa tilted her head as she considered the question, her long white hair brushing delicately at her equally pale neck. Then swift and sure, she plunged a hand beneath the snows not far from her feet. She triumphantly lifted up a struggling mole, then snapped its neck with an expert twist of her hands. She tossed the small creature to Jon, who caught it in disbelief, as Sansa moved, lightening quick, to snatch a squirrel from a low branch.

*

Jon grinned at the small bounty Sansa had managed to gather for him, roasting the meat on sticks over a freshly built fire. He offered her the first taste, since she had done the hard work, but Sansa declined. This body did not yearn for food. She instead drank in Jon's glow, which shone ever the brighter as he ate his fill. She sat on the far side of the fire, and felt herself smiling softly as Jon slowly grew used to her presence.

Evidently, Jon found it too awkward to sit in silence, as eventually he offered his name. Sansa's smile broadened at that. Carefully and cautiously, she advanced on the fire, dragging a thick twig with a burnt tip from the merry flames. Jon watched curiously as Sansa willed her disobediant hands to draw. For some reason, on her first attempt, she drew a wonky spiral. Frowing and concentrating very had, Sansa scraped out the letters of her name.

She moved a safe distance away, allowing Jon to move in and read it.

"Sansa?" he read in mild confusion. "That's a Northern name."

She nodded vigorously, pleased. She utilised her stick again. Jon mouthed the word 'Stark' in utter disbelief. His suspicious grey eyes shot up to her face, and Sansa offered him an encouraging smile. She was not surprised when Jon sat back into a crouch and shook his head rapidly.

"It's not possible," he denied, "How could you be a Stark?"

Sansa shrugged. No matter what skin she wore, or whose life she invaded, she would always be a Stark in her own heart. A heart that would always sing out for Jon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter now has accompanying art!! Please go check out the gorgeous artwork of White Walker Sansa: [the night queen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18617209) by [with_her_ghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oyuka_zula/pseuds/with_her_ghosts)
> 
>  
> 
> 21\. Sansa Lannister (T+C) / Jon Stark (N+A)  
> 22\. Sansa Baelish (P+L) / Jon Targaryen (R+L)  
> 23\. Sansa Stark (B+C) / Jon Dayne (N+A)  
> 24\. Sansa Bolton (N+C) / Jon Snow (R+L)  
> 25\. Sansa Tully (J+C) / Jon Targaryen (R+L)  
> 26\. Sansa Umber / Jon Hornwood (H+D)  
> 27\. Sansa Mormont / Jon Stark (N+C)  
> 28\. Sansa Sand (N+A) / Jaehaerys Targaryen (R+E)  
> 29\. Sansa Baratheon (S+C) / Jon Selmy (B+A)  
> 30\. Sansa Stark (N+C) / Jon Baratheon (R+C)


	9. Sansa Karstark & Jon Stark

A door slamming was enough to jolt Sansa awake, the ghost of cold kisses still lingering on her lips. She lay with her eyes open for a long, reluctant moment, before levering herself up. Having grown used to her ethereal, graceful Other skin, a human body seemed unaccountably heavy now. A red-haired girl glared at her from the doorway of her stone room. The walls were dark and oppressive grey stone, after endless, glittering white snow, perfect and clean. Sansa closed her eyes and took a deep breath in through her nose. When she opened them again, the other girl was still staring at her contemptuously. Sansa recalled her face as she finally began to shake off the otherworldly knowledge of her Other self. Without a word, Alys Karstark huffed and stormed away.

Sansa reached out with her pink human hands, marvelling at the weight of her wiggling fingers, then slowly manoeuvred from her bed. The glass confirmed her return to the flesh of man, with new grey-blue eyes, and familiar red hair. Sansa sighed heavily, unaccustomed to lingering after-affects, once she awoke as a new version of herself.

Eventually, she roused herself and began to dress for the day. Snow was falling outside of her window, and though she could see it was not quite the depths of winter yet, Sansa could see drifts in the distance, collecting depth with every new snowflake. It would not be long until the North was blanketed in white, just as the lands Beyond the Wall had been.

The Karstark sigils and waking to Alys' scowling visage quickly alerted Sansa to her companions, but akin to the last world, she had not woken in a keep. Sansa opened her chamber door to find a balcony staircase with a wooden bannister that she could look over into the floor below. A tavern's humble innards housed the usual rag-tag customers, travellers and local smallfolk sheltering from the snow. Sansa joined the Karstarks with little fanfare, and was quickly handed a bowl of weak broth. Sansa preferred cheese and bread to break her fast with, but she did not protest. She was suddenly ravenous, wolfing down her food. As though her new skin was protesting the lack of meat she had given the previous one.

Alys was tight-lipped beside her, a man Sansa recognised as Harrion Karstark glancing between them uneasily. He steed the conversation, but Sansa was still too un-tethered, to pay much attention. She found herself mounting a palfrey mare, without much knowledge of how she had moved from the tavern to the stables. The snow had ease a little, though the wind was still bitter and biting on the back of Sansa’s neck. She raised her hood with a kind of grim satisfaction, glad to be reminded of her humanity. She was similarly pleased to require svelte rabbit-skin gloves to keep her hands warm.

The ride to Winterfell was a quick one. The snows must have prevented them from moving from the outskirts of Winter Town until this moment. The shanty village of wooden huts and mud houses was heaving with smallfolk, another confirmation that winter was almost here in this world. Sansa smiled, recalling the lovely nights she had spent curled up beneath the furs with Jon.

Alys caught sight of her small grin, and gave Sansa another frosty look.

“Stop crowing about your victory, before it has been won,” said the older girl, leaning close to Sansa to hiss viciously.

Sansa blinked at the venom in the other girl’s voice. Having no memory on the cause of strife between them, she could only offer a wide-eyed look of innocence. Alys was evidently not convinced.

“Just because you are beautiful, it does not mean you deserve to be the Queen,” said Alys primly, sniffing as though she supposed Sansa’s beauty to be her only positive quality.

Sansa had desired to be a Queen once, in a time long past. She had been cured of those sentimental dreams in a ruthless, horrifying ordeal. She did not long for such things any more. But denying Alys’ words would not be wise. She only had this body for a fortnight or less; it was not her place to ruin the plans of her counterparts. Only to steer them toward Jon, who would cherish and love them.

“A younger sister should not be betrothed, until the elder is spoken for,” Alys informed her, “But you have always been abominably selfish.”

Sansa sucked her lower lip into her mouth, unable to deny the charge. She had been a self-absorbed child, always daydreaming of the life she wanted for herself when she came of age. Rarely had she paid mind to the feelings of those around her.

“Jon will see through you,” Alys warned Sansa, her tone dark and menacing, “He won’t fall under your spell like all the green boys at Karhold.”

With these parting words, Alys spurred her horse, trotting ahead with a parting glower of disdain. Sansa scowled at the advancing girl’s back, her ire suddenly stoked. She almost felt pity for Alys. If she was preparing to fight Sansa for Jon’s affections, the foolish girl had no notion of the war Sansa would wage to secure her man.

*

The Karstarks were welcomed with bread, salt, and warm words from Jon, who stood regal and broad-shouldered, with a ferocious, grey direwolf snarling on his black doublet, faintly glittering with a scattering of diamonds. Nestled on his black curls was a shining, spiked silver crown set with large, dark blue and black stones. Ghost sat obediently at his side, until Harrion and Rickard Karstark stepped aside and allowed Sansa through. Then the direwolf leapt to his feet, flicking his tail back and forth as though in welcome. Sansa smiled softly at her loyal friend, who had kept her company whenever Jon was forced to leave her side. Ghost padded across the hall on near silent feet, drawing a nervous whimper from Alys, and a bristle from the men.

Jon regarded his direwolf in amazement; opening his mouth as if to call him back. But Sansa was quicker. She darted forward to greet her old friend, reaching out a confident hand to pet Ghost on his huge furry head. She rubbed his ears affectionately, and Ghost’s large mouth dropped open in a canine smile, showing off his sharp fangs. Sansa had never been afraid of a direwolf, not even Rickon’s boisterous and unruly Shaggydog. But she gradually became aware of the silence surrounding her, from a sea of astonishment. These were not men who had grown used to the sight of Grey Wind on the battlefield, it seemed.

Jon alone was smiling, elated.

“Ghost does not easily befriend others,” he said, and Sansa was gratified by a flare of triumph in her stomach.

“He’s a beautiful beast,” said Sansa, looking at Jon flirtatiously, from beneath her lashes.

Ghost butted her hand, to regain her focus, and Sansa began petting his fluffy head again.

“Aye, he’s a looker,” Jon agreed, but his gaze was locked entirely on Sansa.

Somewhere behind them, Alys pressed her lips together tightly in annoyance,; a look Sansa caught, when the Karstarks were invited to retire to their guest chambers, to relax before the feast.

*

The Karstarks were not the only visitors at Winterfell. Sansa realised from the decoration and bountiful foodstuffs being transported to the kitchens, that the Harvest Festival was underway. She was pleased to find suitable dresses and jewels in her travelling trunk, brushing her fiery red hair until shone like amber in the candlelight.

All heads turned toward her when she entered the hall, and she was pleased to find her new family had been invited to sup with Jon at his high table that evening. The Karstarks were reticent, gruff Northern folk, but they seemed to respect Jon and listened attentively when he spoke. Sansa was pleased to see Jon’s eyes drawn back to her continuously, as though he could not bare to look away from her for too long. She offered him her sweet smiles freely, her big blue eyes wide and attentive.

But when the lower tables were pushed aside for dancing, she made herself difficult to catch. Dancing with Cley Cerwyn, her new brothers, the Smalljon and even the ancient Robbard Glover before she consented to allow Jon to catch her hand.

“You move very gracefully, your grace,” she complimented him, pleased that her words were true.

Her Jon had never been a sure dancer, preferring to sit on the sidelines sullenly when they were children, rather than practice. Sansa had no doubt her mother’s cold, watchful eye had been a chief incentive for Jon to rarely rehearse. But this Jon was lithe and elegant, and Sansa resolved to tread the boards with her own man more often, once she returned to him. Practice could do wonders for any skill, after all.

“Please, Lady Sansa, call me Jon,” he asked of her, “I grow tired of never being addressed by name.”

“Only if you call me plain Sansa in return,” she bargained, eager to remove the distancing title.

Jon smiled beautifully, and Sansa longed to kiss his upturned lips. It was only the demands of the dance, forcing her to step back and be turned sideways that prevented her from making a public error of great magnitude.

*

Sansa had heard Harrion Karstark addressed as the Lord of Karhold, therefore making him her guardian here. She was not unnerved to be asked to step into his guest solar, though his grim countenance was not welcoming.

“Alys has had her sights on King Jon for years now,” he began, which immediately made Sansa bristle.

It did not matter how unfamiliar the world was, nor how their circumstances transformed. Jon belonged with her, in all walks of life. They were fated to be together.

“And she has evidently made little progress,” Sansa rejoined, somewhat unkindly.

Harrion sagged into his chair, tugging on his long, pointed beard.

“You could be a little more gentle, Sansa,” he chastised her, “It’s true Alys has worked hard to gain Jon’s interest, and you have made far more progress in mere days. You need not preen about it.”

It was true that Sansa had been brightly bouncing about Winterfell, caught in the throes of the cheerful festival and Jon’s evident interest. They had spent hours in one another’s company, traversing the glass gardens and the Godwood together.

“We do not find matches for younger girls before their elder sisters are betrothed or wedded.” Harrion reminded her.

Sansa huffed, irritated to be wasting precious time here, that could be better spent in pleasant conversation with Jon. It mattered not what the rules of etiquette were. Here, Jon was a King. He would wed the woman he wished to, regardless of what decorum dictated. Sansa’s defiant look seemed to telegraph this to Harrion, who sighed heavily.

“You could at least attempt to retain your sister’s friendship,” he said, “Winterfell is not so close to Karhold that we might visit our new Queen more than once a year.”

He offered her a subdued smile then, and offered her his congratulations; Jon had asked Harrion for permission court her. Thrilled, Sansa clasped her hands together in glee. She manfully resisted the urge to rush to Jon and throw her arms about him, and simply hold him in her loving embrace until she was ejected from this skin.

*

Sansa found herself once more under the harsh gaze of her new elder sister, as she took her bath. Alys had stomped into her room to offer Sansa her congratulations in humiliating her.

“It was not my intention to hurt you, Alys,” said Sansa, relinquishing her hold on her wet hair, which she had been drawing her fingers through, in a soothing motion. "My love for Jon is deep and true."

Alys scoffed, unconvinced.

“You did not think of me at all,” she said, “You only ever think of yourself.”

“You have a poor opinion of me,” Sansa observed, “But I have not only been looking out for my own interests. It is you who have been so blinded by jealousy, you are scuppering your own chances for happiness.”

Alys scowled, crossing her arms over her small bosom.

“What are you talking about?”

Sansa was used to paying close attention to each new world she arrived in, to better blend seamlessly with her companions, until her counterpart’s nature began to inform her movements. She had paid close attention to the lords at Winterfell, in case there were hidden threats to Jon’s rule among them. Petyr Baelish’s teachings ensured she would never be entirely distracted by festivities ever again. Politics invaded each aspect of her life now.

So Sansa had seen that while Alys had been miserable to be overlooked by Jon, she was stoking that same feeling in Domeric Bolton. The older man had been watching her wistfully since the very first night after their arrival.

When Sansa pointed this out, Alys remained disbelieving. It seemed Sansa Karstark was prone to cruel japes at her elder sister’s expense. But at length, Alys allowed herself to be convinced that Domeric Bolton was worth approaching. The Lady of the Dreadfort was a coveted title, certainly worthy of the eldest daughter of a noble and ancient House.

“Just think, we might have a joint wedding, before winter is upon us,” Sansa suggested with generous warmth.

Alys tugged on the end of her braid, under-confident, but infected by Sansa’s hope nonetheless. Sansa leaned back in the deliciously hot water, and began lathering her skin in delicately scented citrus soap, calm and content.


	10. Sansa Stark & Jon Stark

Castle Cerwyn was familiar enough to Sansa that she knew it from the moment she opened her eyes. Being only a day’s ride from Winterfell, the Stark children had built a strong friendship with Lord Medger’s children Jonelle and Cley, who varied widely in age and temperament. Jonelle was a woman grown, an old maid, homely but plain, while Cley was of age with Robb and Jon. When Sansa bounded down to the great hall to greet her friends as family, she was surprised to find her Uncle Benjen deep in conversation with Lord Cerwyn.

Delighted, Sansa sat herself directly across from Benjen Stark, who smiled to see her. Her hair had changed again, to the common dark brown of the Northern people. She noted now that the shade seemed to match Benjen’s exactly. She was thus unsurprised when he greeted Sansa as his daughter; but rather more taken aback when Jonelle Cerwyn greeted her uncle-turned-father with a soft kiss on his scruffy cheek. Benjen and Jonelle were not far apart in age, and now that Sansa saw the match before her, it made logical sense.

Sansa ate quickly, filled with a restless energy she could not explain. Benjen smiled indulgently at her enquiry about visiting Winterfell. He agreed to ride out with her the following day, which left Sansa with idle time to fill. She sought out the maester’s tower, rifling through his small library until she found what she was looking for. It saddened her to learn her true mother had died bringing Robb into this world. In a tome of lineages of the North and Riverlands, the Stark family tree had but few leaves on its lowest branches. Sansa was the only child of Benjen and Jonelle, with Robb and Jon as Eddard’s only sons. She was surprised to learn Jon had been legitimized as a babe, meaning he was raised as Jon Stark. But it made clear sense, as Ned Stark had not remarried. Preferring to grieve the loss of his father, brother, sister and new wife in solitude. Sansa felt for Robb and Jon, who had evidently been raised in a very solemn household. She resolved to bring light and laughter to Winterfell.

*

Winterfell was not entirely joyless, as she had feared. Ned Stark greeted his brother and niece warmly, with a familiar twinkle of happiness in his eyes. Robb and Jon were sparring with blunt swords in the yard when Sansa found them, looking well matched. Sansa felt her heart flutter dangerously. She had not seen a version of Robb, since she had coaxed him into a further sin than sharing his wife with his brother. Sansa had not expected her skin to grow warm at the sight of him. Her woman’s place grew hot and wet; recalling being sandwiched between the two men, with their demanding kisses and possessive touch.

Sansa almost succeeded in retreating to her rooms cool down, or else indulge herself, but Robb caught sight of her. Her cousins hailed her and Sansa squeaked then Robb lifted her clean off the ground and spun her about. When he set her on her feet, Sansa noted the very great distance in their heights once more. Benjen Stark was half a decade younger than Ned, Sansa knew. Naturally, there would be a gap between the ages of their children. But she was not prepared to be referred to as ‘little San’ nor have Jon ruffle her hair as though she were Arya. Sansa pouted, a reflex action of her younger body, and wondered how she could begin to win Jon over, when he saw her as a child.

*

Sansa began by declining a suggestion to play Monsters and Maidens. Instead, she prayed for patience at the heart tree. At dinner, she listened attentively to the conversation. Ned and Benjen discussed the worsening state of the road North, and how wildling attacks had affected trade. She filed away this information, sure she could find some use for it to make her seem more mature.

Her moment came toward the end of the meal, when Ned mentioned the overcrowding in the cells at White Harbour, after the mass arrest of a ring of pirates and smugglers. Their reported crimes were not severe enough for banishment to the Night’s Watch, yet keeping men in suffocating conditions was not a long-term solution.

“You might use them for indentured servitude,” Sansa suggested.

All eyes at the high table swung to her, but Sansa had commanded the lords of the North from this spot in her own world. She was not cowed before their unconvinced looks.

“Were you not earlier lamenting the state of the roads between Winterfell and Last Hearth?” she pressed, “Could not a man work for a set term on digging out stones and levelling the dirt, even pouring out sand as they do in the South, to create real roads?”

“There might be something in that, sweet daughter,” Benjen mused, sharing a look of serious contemplation with his elder brother.

*

The following morn, Sansa invited herself to Robb and Jon’s lessons in Maester Luwin’s study, quietly unfurling her scroll despite their unsure looks. But Sansa was studious and attentive, so Maester Luwin allowed her to stay, and seemed pleased with her few, calculated questions.

“You seem to have become a lady overnight, San,” said Jon with a charming grin.

Sansa had already noted Jon seemed more confident here, and although she lamented the chance to visit with her long-lost mother and brothers, it pleased her to see a younger version of Jon carry himself with assurance. Sansa thanked him, and took his arm primly, so Jon escorted her to luncheon. He sat beside her, and Sansa sighed happily, pleased to simply be near him, even though he considered her a child.

When luncheon concluded, Sansa scurried away to Ned Stark’s solar, knowing he often ate alone when he was terribly busy. She knocked lightly, and was quickly granted entry.

“Sansa,” said Ned softly, “How can I assist you, child?”

Sansa swept into the room with her head held high, shoulders back and steel in her spine. She sat regally, and observed Ned blink in surprise at her high-minded behaviour.

“I should like very much if you would consider me as a prospect for Jon,” she said, entirely to point.

Ned leaned back in his chair, blinking rapidly.

“You are both a little young for all that,” he said firmly.

Sansa bristled, unimpressed. Great sorrow could befall a House at any time. It did not do to be overly flippant about one’s time remaining in the world. Caution ruled the day.

“Castle Cerwyn is very close,” Sansa said, “Making it an ideal location for a second cadet branch of House Stark. We wolves do well closer together. Winter is Coming, my lord, and the lone wolf dies. I do not want to be that lone wolf, pulled between the younger sons of Lords Ryswell and Karstark, all of whom are too advanced in years for me.”

“Aye, child,” said Ned with a frown, seemingly never having considered the struggles of a female heiress before. He scrubbed a hand over his chin-scruff wearily, a gesture Sansa adored for the reminder of her happy childhood that came attached to it.

“I will make no promises as to the outcome,” he concluded, “But I can give you my word I shall discuss the matter thoroughly with Benjen. It is your father’s prerogative when to find a suitable match for you. That, I will not interfere with.”

It was likely the best Sansa could hope for. At least the idea had been presented to Lord Stark, and she trusted he would afford it all due consideration.

*

Sansa could not escape her own education, though she was far in advance of Old Nan’s gentle teachings. There was no Sept or Septa in Winterfell, with no Southron-born Lady Stark to cater for. Sansa embroidered a pair of black leather gloves with tiny tumbling direwolves tussling for Jon. She took extra care with the work, enjoying the excuse to sit in the sunshine and sew, while Jon practiced his archery ahead of her. She admired his form shamelessly, smiling whenever he took a pull from his water-skin and caught her eye.

“You’ve been awfully quiet lately, little San,” he said, joining her on a low brick wall.

“A lady should be modest and sedate at all times,” Sansa replied with a winsome smile.

Jon snorted with laughter, and she gave him a short sharp shove in retaliation.

“Oh-ho!” cried Jon, wriggling his fingers at her, before launching into a tickling-attack on her waist.

Sansa let out an astounded shriek, bounding to her feet. This small body was sensitive to the slightest teasing touch, so she scurried away from Jon’s mischievous hands. The unfinished gloves were quickly tossed toward her sewing basket and luckily landed on the edge. Jon hurried after Sansa, and caught her about the waist. Sansa giggled helplessly as he swung her about, thrilled to be the object of Jon’s attention, though it was entirely innocent.

High above, Ned Stark watched their playful interaction with a subdued smile, unnoticed by Jon or Sansa, who were entirely caught up in one another.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [the night queen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18617209) by [orphan_account](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account)




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